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CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 



V 


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Crusoe in New York, 


AND OTHER TALES. 


BY 


EDWARD E. HALE, 

n 


AUTHOR OF “THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY,” “iN HIS NAME,” 
“ten TIMES ONE IS TEN,” “ HOW TO DO IT,” 

“ HIS LEVEL BEST,” ETC 



BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1887. 




LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
l wo Copies Hece-vt*? 

JUN 30 1908 

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Copyright, 1880, 

By Roberts Brothers. 


THIRD EDITION. 



University Press: 

John "Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 


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PREFACE. 



0 far as these little stories have met the public 


eye, they have called forth criticism from two 
points of view. It is said, on the one hand, that the 
moral protrudes too obviously ; that if a preacher 
wants to preach, he had better preach and be done 
with it ; that, in the nineteenth century, which is 
given to realism, nobody wants “ invented example,” 
or stories written to enforce certain theories of right. 
It is said, on the other hand, that the stories have 
no right to be, because they have no purpose ; that 
nobody can tell what the author is driving at, — 
perhaps he cannot tell himself ; and that, in the nine- 
teenth century, nobody has any right to thrust upon 
an exhausted world stories which are not true unless 
they teach a lesson. 

It was early settled for me by the critics, in my 
little experience as a story-writer, that it is wrong 
for an author to make his stories probable, — that 
he who does this is “a forger and a counterfeiter.” 
There is, however, high authority for teaching by 
parable — and that parable which has a very great 
air of probability. 


VI 


PREFACE. 


My limited experience as an editor has taught me, 
that, whatever else people will read or will not read, 
they do read short stories, on the whole, more than 
they read anything else, — nineteenth century to the 
contrary notwithstanding. 

Whether these little tales have any right to be or 
not, they exist. To those who think they should have 
been cast in the shape of sermons, I have only to say 
that there also exist already, in that form of instruc- 
tions, one thousand and ninety-six short essays by the 
same author, to which number every week of his 
strength and health makes an addition. These are 
open to the perusal or the hearing of any person who 
is not “ partial to stories,” to use an expressive na- 
tional dialect. Some few even are for sale in print 
by the publishers of these tales. 

The little book is dedicated, with the author’s 
thanks, to those kind readers who have followed his 
earlier stories, and have been so tolerant that they 
were willing to ask for more. 

Matunuck on the Hill, Rhode Island, 

July 15, 1880. 


CONTENTS, 


Page 

Crusoe in New York 1 

Alif-Laila . 59 

A Civil Servant . . ' 78 

Nicolette and Aucassin . 104 

Stories of Travel : 

I. The Lost Palace 149 

II. The Western Ginevra : 

Bought 171 

Sold 180 

Caught and Told 189 

III. Max Keesler’s Horse-Car : 

The Paint- Shop 195 

The Woman began it 197 

A Lodgment made 200 

An Experiment 204 

Regular Work 209 

Your Uncle 214 

The End 220 

The Modern Psyche 224 



CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


PART I. 

T WAS born in the year 1842, in the city of New 
York, of a good family, though not of that 
country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, 
who settled first in England. He got a good estate 
by merchandise, and afterward lived at New York. 
But first he had married my mother, whose rela- 
tions were named Robinson — a very good family 
in her country — and from them I was named. 

My father died before I can remember — at least, 
I believe so. Eor, although I sometimes figure to my- 
self a grave, elderly man, thickset and wearing a 
broad-brimmed hat, holding me between his knees 
and advising me seriously, I cannot say really 
whether this were my father or no; or, rather, 
whether this is really some one I remember or no. 
Eor my mother, with whom I have lived alone much 
of my life, as - the reader will see, has talked to me of 
my father so much, and has described him to me so 
faithfully, that I cannot tell but it is her description 
of him that I recollect so easily. And so, as I say, 
I cannot tell whether I remember him or no. 


2 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


He never lost his German notions, and perhaps 
they gained in England some new force as to the 
way in which boys should be bred. At least, for my- 
self, I know that he left to my mother strict charge 
that I should be bound ’prentice to a carpenter as 
soon as I was turned of fourteen. I have often heard 
her say that this was the last thing he spoke to her 
of when he was dying ; and, with the tears in her 
eyes, she promised him it should be so.' And though 
it cost her a world of trouble — so changed were 
times and customs — to find an old-fashioned master 
who would take me for an apprentice, she was as 
good as her word. 

I should like to tell the story of my apprentice- 
ship, if I supposed the reader cared as much about it 
as I do ; but I must rather come to that part of my 
life which is remarkable, than hold to that which is 
more like the life of many other boys. My father’s 
property was lost or was Wasted, I know not 
how, so that my poor mother had but a hard time 
of it; and when I was just turned of twenty-one 
and was free of my apprenticeship, she had but 
little to live upon but what I could bring home, and 
what she could earn by her needle. This was no 
grief to me, for I was fond of my trade, and I had 
learned it well. My old master was fond of me, and 
would trust me with work of a good deal of responsi- 
bility. I neither drank nor smoked, nor was I over- 
fond of the amusements which took up a good deal 
of the time of my fellow- workmen. I was most 
pleased when, on pay-day, I could carry home to my 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


3 


mother ten, fifteen, or even twenty dollars — could 
throw it into her lap, and kiss her and make her kiss 
me. 

“ Here is the oil for the lamp, my darling,” I 
would say ; or, “ Here is the grease for the wheels ” ; 
or, “Now you must give me white sugar twice a day ” 
She was a good manager, and she made both ends 
meet very well. 

I had no thought of leaving my master when my 
apprenticeship was over, nor had he any thought of 
'letting me go. We understood each other well, he 
liked me and I liked him. He knew that he had in 
me one man who was not afraid of work, as he would 
say, and who would not shirk it. And so, indeed, he 
would often put me in charge of parties of workmen 
who were much older than I was. 

So it was that it happened, perhaps some months 
after I had become a journeyman, that he told me to 
take a gang of men, whom he named, and to go quite 
up-town in the city, to put a close wooden fence 
around a vacant lot of land there. One, of his regu- 
lar employers had come to him, to say that this lot of 
land was to he enclosed, and the work was to he done 
by him. He had sent round the lumber, aiid he told 
me that I w T ould find it on the ground. He gave me, 
in writing, the general directions by which the fence 
was ordered, and told me to use my best judgment 
in carrying them out. “ Only take care,” said he, 
“ that you do it as well as if I was there myself. Do 
not be in a hurry, and be sure your work stands.” 

I was well pleased to be left thus to my own judg- 


4 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


ment. I had no fear of failing to do the job well, or 
of displeasing my old master or his employer. If I 
had any doubts, they were about the men who were 
to work under my lead, whom I did not rate at all 
equally ; and, if I could have had my pick, I should 
have thrown out some of the more sulky and lazy of 
them, and should have chosen from the other hands. 
But youngsters must not be choosers when they are 
on their first commissions. 

I had my party well at work, with some laborers 
whom we had hired to dig our post-holes, when a 
white-haired old man, with gold spectacles and a 
broad-brimmed hat, alighted from a cab upon the 
sidewalk, watched the men for* a minute at their 
work, and then accosted me. I knew him perfectly, 
though of course he did not remember me. He was, 
in fact, my employer in this very job, for he was old 
Mark Henry, a Quaker gentleman of Philadelphia, 
who was guardian of the infant heirs who owned this 
block of land which we were enclosing. My master 
did all the carpenter’s work in the Hew York houses 
which Mark Henry or any of his wards owned, and I 
had often seen him at the shop in consultation. I 
turned to him and explained to him the plans for the 
work. We had already some of the joists cut, which 
were to make the posts to our fence. The old man 
measured them with his cane, and said he thought 
they would not be long enough. 

I explained to him that the fence was to be eight 
feet high, and that these were quite long enough for 
that. 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


5 


“ I know,” he said, “ I know, my young friend, 
that my order was for a fence eight feet high, but 1 
do not think that will do.” 

With some surprise I showed him, by a “ ten-foot 
pole,” how high the fence would come. 

“ Yes, my young friend, I see, I see. But I tell 
thee, every beggar’s brat in the ward will he over 
thy fence before it has been built a week, and there 
will be I know not what devices of Satan carried on 
in the inside. All the junk from the North Biver 
will be hidden there, and I shall be in luck if some 
stolen trunk, nay, some dead man’s body, is not 
stowed away there. Ah, my young friend, if thee is 
ever unhappy enough to own a vacant lot in the city, 
thee will know much that thee does not know now 
of the exceeding sinfulness of sin. Thee will know 
of trials of the spirit and of the temper that thee 
has never yet experienced.” 

I said I thought this was probable, but I thought 
inwardly that I would gladly be tried that way. The 
old man went on : — 

“ I said eight feet to friend Silas, but thee may say 
to him that I have thought better of it, and that I 
have ordered thee to make the fence ten 'feet high. 
Thee may say that I am now going to Philadelphia, 
but that I will write to him my order when I arrive. 
Meanwhile thee will go on with the fence as I bid 
thee.” 

And so the old man entered his cab again, and 
rode away. 

I amused myself at his notion, for I knew very 


6 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK , 


well that the street-hoys and other loafers would 
storm his ten-foot wall as readily as they would have 
stormed the Malakoff or the Kedan, had they sup- 
posed there was anything to gain by doing it. I 
had, of course, to condemn some of my posts, which 
were already cut, or to work them in to other parts 
of the fence. My order for spruce hoards was to 
be enlarged by twenty per cent by the old mans 
direction, and this, as it happened, led to a new 
arrangement of my piles of lumber on my vacant 
land. 

And all this it was which set me to thinking that 
night, as I looked on the work, that I might attempt 
another enterprise, which, as it proved, lasted me for 
years, and which I am now going to describe. 

I had worked diligently with the men to set up 
some fifty feet of the fence where it parted us from 
an alley- way, for I wanted a chance to dry some of 
the boards, which had just been hauled from a raft in 
the North Eiver. The truckmen had delivered them 
helter-skelter, and they lay, still soaking, above each 
other on our vacant lot. 

We turned all our force on this first piece of fence, 
and had so much of it done that, by calling off the 
men just before sundown, I was able to set up all 
the wet boards, each with one end resting on the 
fence and the other on the ground, so that they took 
the air on both sides, and would dry more quickly. 
Of course this left a long, dark tunnel underneath. 

As the other hands gathered up their tools and 
made ready to go, a fellow named McLoughlin, whc 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


7 


liad gone out with one of the three months’ regi- 
ments not long before, said : — 

“ I would not be sorry to sleep there. I have slept 
in many a worse place than that in Dixie”; and on 
that he went away, leaving me to make some meas- 
urements which I needed the next day. But what he 
said rested in my mind, and, as it happened, directed 
the next twelve years of my life. 

Why should not I live here ? How often my 
mother had said that, if she had only a house of her 
own, she should be perfectly happy ! Why should 
not we have a house of our own here, just as comfort- 
able as if we had gone a thousand miles out on the 
prairie to build.it, and a great deal nearer to the 
book-stores, to the good music, to her old friends, and 
to my good wages? We had talked a thousand times 
of moving together to Kansas, where I was to build 
a little hut for her, and we were to be very happy 
together. But why not do as the minister had bid- 
den us only the last Sunday — seize on to-day, and 
take what Providence offered now ? 

I must acknowledge that the thought of paying 
any ground rent to old Mr. Henry did not occur to 
me then — no, nor for years afterward. On the other 
hand, all that I thought of was this, — that here was 
as good a chance as there was in Kansas to live with- 
out rent, and that rent had been, was still, and was 
likely to be my bugbear, unless I hit on some such 
scheme as this for abating it. 

The plan, to be short, filled my mind. There was 
nothing in the way of house-building which I shrank 


8 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


from now, for, in learning my trade, I had won my 
Aladdin’s lamp, and I could build my mother a pal- 
ace, if she had needed one. Pleased with my fancy, 
before it was dark I had explored my principality 
from every corner, and learned all its capabilities. 

The lot was an oblong, nearly three times as long 
as it was wide. On the west side, which was one of 
the short sides, it faced what I will call the Ninety- 
ninth Avenue, and on the south side, what I will 
call Fernando Street, though really it was one of the 
cross-streets with numbers. Eunning to the east 
it came to a narrow passage-way which had been 
reserved for the accommodation of the rear of a 
church which fronted on the street just north of 
us. Our back line was also the back line of the 
yards of the houses on the same street, but on our 
northeast corner the church ran back as far as the 
back line of both houses and yards, and its high 
brick wall — nearly fifty feet high — took the place 
there of the ten-foot brick wall, surmounted by bot- 
tle-glass, which made their rear defence. 

The moment my mind was turned to the matter, I 
saw that in the rear of the church there was a corner, 
which lay warmly and pleasantly to the southern and 
western sun, which was still out of eye-shot from the 
street, pleasantly removed from the avenue passing, 
and only liable to inspection, indeed, from the dwell- 
ing-houses on the opposite side of our street, — houses 
which, at this moment, were not quite finished, though 
they would be occupied soon. 

If, therefore, I could hit on some way of screening 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


9 


my mother’s castle from them — for a castle I called 
it from the first moment, though it was to be much 
more like a cottage — I need fear no observation from 
other quarters ; for the avenue was broad, and on the 
other side from us there was a range of low, rambling 
buildings — an engine-house and a long liquor-saloon 
were two — which had but one story. Most of them 
had been built, I suppose, only to earn something for 
the land while it was growing valuable. The church 
had no windows in the rear, and that protected my 
castle — which was, indeed, still in the air — from all 
observation on that side. 

I told my mother nothing of all this when I went 
home. But I did tell her that I had some calcula- 
tions to make for my work, and that was enough. 
She went on, sweet soul ! without speaking a word, 
with her knitting and her sewing, at her end of the 
table, only getting up to throw a cloth over her 
parrot’s cage when he was noisy ; and I sat at my end 
of the table, at work over my figures, as silent as if 
I had been on a desert island. 

Before bedtime I had quite satisfied myself with 
the plan of a very pretty little house which would 
come quite within our space, our means, and our 
shelter. There was a little passage which ran quite 
across from east to west. On the church side of this 
there was my mother’s kitchen, which was to be what 
I fondly marked the “common-room.” This was 
quite long from east to west, and not more than half 
as long the other way. But on the east side, where 
I could have no windows, I cut off, on its whole 


10 CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 

width, a deep closet ; and this proved a very fortu- 
nate thing afterward, as you shall see. On the west 
side I made one large square window, and there was, 
of course, a door into the passage. 

On the south side of the passage I made three 
rooms, each narrow and long. The two outside 
rooms I meant to light from the top. Whether I 
would put any skylight into the room between them, 
I was not quite so certain ; I did not expect visitors 
in my new house, so I did not mark it a “ guest- 
room ” in the plan. But I thought of it as a store- 
room, and as such, indeed, for many years we used it ; 
though at last I found it more convenient to cut a 
sky-light in the roof there also. But I am getting 
before my story. 

Before I had gone to bed that night I had made a 
careful estimate as to how much lumber I should 
need, of different kinds, for my little house; for I 
had, of course, no right to use my master’s lumber 
nor Mr. Henry’s ; nor had I any thought of doing so. 
I made out an estimate that would be quite full, for 
shingles, for clapboards, white pine for my floors and 
finish, — for I meant to make good a job of it if I 
made any, — and for laths for the inside work. I 
made another list of the locks, hinges, window fur- 
niture and other hardware I should need ; but for 
this I cared less, as I need not order them so soon. 
I could scarcely refrain from showing my plan to my 
mother, so snug and comfortable did it look already; 
but I had already determined that the “ city house ” 
should be a present to her on her next birthday, and 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


11 


that till then I would keep it a secret from her, as 
from all the world ; so I refrained. 

The next morning I told my master what the old 
Quaker had directed about the fence, and I took his 
order for the new lumber we should need to raise the 
height as was proposed. At the same time I told 
him that we were all annoyed at the need of carrying 
our tools hack arid forth, and because we could only 
take the nails for one day’s use ; and that, if he were 
willing, I had a mind to risk an old chest I had 
with the nails in it and a few tools, which I thought 
I could so hide that the w r harf-rats and other loafers 
should not discover it. He told me to do as I pleased, 
that he would risk the nails if I would risk my tools ; 
and so, by borrowing what we call a hand-cart for a 
few days, I was able to take up my own little things 
to the lot without his asking any other questions, or 
without exciting the curiosity of McLoughlin or any 
other of the men. Of course, he would have sent up 
in the shop-wagon anything we needed ; but it was 
far out of the way, and nobody wanted to drive the 
team back at night if we could do without. And so, 
as night came on, I left the men at their work, and 
having loaded my hand- cart with a small chest I had, 
I took that into the alley- way of which I told you be- 
fore, carried my box of tools into the corner between 
the church and our fence, under the boards which 
we had set up to-day, and covered it heavily, with 
McLoughlin’s help, with joists and boards, so that no 
light work would remove them, if, indeed, any wan- 
derer of the night suspected that the box was there. 


12 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


I took the hand-cart out into the alley- way and 
chained it, first by the wheel and then by the 
handle, in two staples which I drove there. I had 
another purpose in this, as you shall see ; but most 
of all, I wanted to test both the police and the knav- 
ishness of the neighborhood, by seeing if the hand- 
cart were there in the morning. 

To my great joy it was, and to my greater joy it 
remained there unmolested all the rest of the week 
in which we worked there. For my master, who never 
came near us himself, increased our force for us on the 
third day, so that at the end of the week, or Saturday 
night, the job was nearly done, and well done, too. 

On the third day I had taken the precaution to 
throw out in the inside of our inclosure a sort of open 
fence, on which I could put the wet boards to dry, 
which at first I had placed on our side fence. I told 
McLoughlin, what was true enough, that the south 
sun was better for them than the sun from the west. 
So I ran out what I may call a screen thirty-five feet 
from the church, and parallel with it, on which I set up 
these boards to dry, and to my great joy I saw that 
they would wholly protect the roof of my little house 
from any observation from the houses the other side 
of the way while the workmen were at work, or even 
after they were inhabited. 

There was not one of the workmen with me who 
had forethought enough or care for our master’s in- 
terest to ask whose boards those were which we left 
there, or why we left them there. Indeed, they knew 
the next Monday 'that I went up with Fergus, the 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


13 


Swede, to bring back such lumber as we did not use, and 
none of them knew or cared how much we left there. 

For me, I was only eager to get to work, and that 
day seemed very long to me. But that Monday after- 
noon I asked my master if I might have the team 
again for my own use for an hour or so, to move some 
Btuff of mine and my mother’s, and he gave it to me 
readily. 

I had then only to drive up-town to a friendly 
lumberman’s, where my own stuff was already lying 
waiting for me to load up, with the assistance of the 
workmen there, and to drive as quickly as I could into 
the church alley. Here I looked around, and seeing 
a German who looked as if he were only a day from 
Bremen, I made signs to him that if he would help me 
I would give him a piece of scrip which I showed him. 
The man had been long enough in the country to 
know that the scrip was good for lager. He took hold 
manfully with me, and carried my timbers and boards 
into the inclosure through a gap I made in the fence 
for the purpose. I gave him his money, and he went 
away. As he went to Minnesota the next day, he 
never mentioned to anybody the business he had been 
engaged in. 

Meanwhile, I had bought my hand- cart of the man 
who owned it. I left a little pile of heavy cedar logs 
on the outside, spiking them to each other, indeed, 
that they should not be easily moved. And to them 
and to my posts I padlocked the hand-cart ; nor was 
it ever disturbed during my reign in those regions. 
So I had easy method enough when I wanted a 


14 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


bundle or two of laths, or a bunch of shingles, or any- 
thing else for my castle, to bring them up in the cool 
of the evening, and to discharge my load without 
special observation. My pile of logs, indeed, grew 
eventually into a blind or screen, which quite pro- 
tected that corner of the church alley from the view 
of any passer-by in Fernando Street. 

Of that whole summer, happy and bright as it all 
was, I look back most often on the first morning when 
I got fairly to work on my new home. I told my 
mother that for some weeks I should have to start 
early, and that she must not think of getting up 
for my breakfast. I told her that there was extra 
work on a job up-town, and that I had promised to 
be there at five every day while the summer lasted. 
She left for me a pot of coffee, which I promised her 
I would warm when the time for breakfast and dinner 
came; and for the rest, she always had my dinner 
ready in my tin dinner-pail. Little did she know 
then, sweet saint ! that I was often at Fernando Street 
by half-past three in the first sweet gray of those 
summer days. 

On that particular day, it was really scarcely light 
enough for me to find the nail I drew from the plank 
which I left for my entrance. When I was fairly 
within and the plank was replaced, I felt that I was 
indeed monarch of all I surveyed. What did I sur- 
vey ? The church wall on the north ; on the south, 
my own screen of spruce boards, now well dry ; <*n 
the east and west, the ten-foot fence which I had brn K 
myself ; and over there on the west, God’s deep, trait 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


15 


parent sky, in which I could still see a planet whose 
name I did not know. It was a heaven, indeed, which 
He had said was as much mine as his ! 

The first thing, of course, was to get out my frame. 
This was a work of weeks. The next thing was to 
raise it. And here the first step was the only hard 
one, nor was this so hard as it would seem. The 
highest wall of my house was no higher than the ten- 
foot fence we had already built on the church alley. 
The western wall, if, indeed, a frame house has any 
walls, was only eight feet high. For foundations and 
sills, I dug deep post-holes, in which I set substantial 
cedar posts which I knew would outlast my day, and 
I framed my sills into these. I made the frame of 
the western wall lie out upon the ground in one piece ; 
and I only needed a purchase high enough, and a 
block with repeating pulleys strong enough, to be 
able to haul up the whole frame by my own strength, 
unassisted. The high purchase I got readily enough 
by making what we called a “ three-leg,” near twenty 
feet high, just where my castle was to stand. I had 
no difficulty in hauling this into its place by a solid 
staple and ring, which for this purpose I drove high 
in the church wall. My multiplying pulley did the 
rest; and after it was done, I took out the staple 
and mended the hole it had made, so the wall was as 
good as ever. 

You see it was nobody’s business what shanty or 
what tower old Mark Henry or the Fordyce heirs 
might or might not put on the vacant corner lot. The 
Fordyce heirs were all in nurseries and kindergartens 


16 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


in Geneva, and indeed would have known nothing of 
corner lots, had they been living in their palace in 
Fourteenth Street. As for Mark Henry, that one great 
achievement by which he rode up to Fernando Street 
was one of the rare victories of his life, of which 
ninety-nine hundredths were spent in counting-houses. 
Indeed, if he had gone there, all he would have seen 
was his ten-foot fence, and he would have taken pride 
to himself that he had it- built so high. 

When the day of the first raising came, and the 
frame slipped into the mortises so nicely, as I had fore- 
ordained that it should do, I was so happy that I could 
scarcely keep my secret from my mother. Indeed, 
that day I did run back to dinner. And when she 
asked me what pleased me so, I longed to let her 
know; but I only smoothed her cheeks with my 
hands, and kissed her on both of them, and told her 
it was because she was so handsome that I was so 
pleased. She said she knew I had a secret from her, 
and I owned that I had, but she said she would 
not try to guess, but would wait for the time for 
me to tell her. 

And so the summer sped by. Of course I saw my 
sweetheart, as I then called my mother, less and less. 
For I worked till it was pitch-dark at the castle ; and 
after it was closed in, so I could work inside, I often 
worked till ten o’clock by candlelight. I do not know 
how I lived with so little sleep ; I am afraid I slept 
pretty late on Sundays. But the castle grew and 
grew, and the common-room, which I was most eager 
to finish wholly before cold weather, was in complete 


CRUSOE TN NEW YORK. 


17 


order three full weeks before my mother’s birthday 
came. 

Then came the joy of furnishing it. To this I had 
looked forward all the summer, and I had measured 
with my eye many a bit of furniture, and priced, in 
an unaffected way, many an impossible second-hand 
finery, so that I knew just what I could do and what 
I could not do. 

My mother had always wanted a Banner stove. I 
knew this, and it was a great grief to me that she 
had none, though she would never say anything 
about it. 

To my great joy, I found a second-hand Banner 
stove, No. 2, at a sort of old junk-shop, which was, 
in fact, an old curiosity shop, not three blocks away 
from Ninety-ninth Avenue. Some' one had sold this 
to them while it was really as good as new, and yet 
the keeper offered it to me at half-price. 

I hung round the place a good deal, and when the 
man found I really had money and meant something, 
he took me into all sorts of alleys and hiding-places, 
where he stored his old things away. I made fabu- 
lous bargains there, for either the old Jew liked me 
particularly, or I liked things that nobody else wanted. 
In the days when his principal customers were 
wharf-rats, and his principal business the traffic in 
old cordage and copper, he had hung out as a sign an 
old tavern-sign of a ship that had come to him. His 
place still went by the name of “ The Ship,” though 
it was really, as I say, a rambling, third-rate old fur- 
niture shop of the old-curiosity kind. 


18 . 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


But after I had safely carried the Banner to my 
new house, and was sure the funnel drew well, and 
that the escape of smoke and sparks was carefully 
guarded, many a visit did I make to The Ship at early 
morning or late in the evening, to bring away one or 
another treasure which I had discovered there. 

Under the pretence of new-varnishing some of my 
mother’s most precious tables and her bureau, I got 
them away from her also. I knocked up, with my 
own hatchet and saw, a sitting-table which I meant 
to have permanent in the middle of the room, which 
was much more convenient than anything I could 
buy or carry. 

And so, on the 12th of October, the eve of my 
mother’s birthday, the common-room was all ready 
for her. In her own room I had a new carpet and a 
new set of painted chamber furniture, which I had 
bought at the maker’s, and brought up piece by piece. 
It cost me nineteen dollars and a half, for which I 
paid him in cash, which indeed he wanted sadly. 

So, on the morning of the 13th of October, I kissed 
my mother forty times, because that day she was forty 
years old. I told her that before midnight she should 
know what the great surprise was, and I asked her 
if she could hold out till then. 

She let me poke as much fun at her as I chose, 
because she said she was so glad to have me at break- 
fast ; and I stayed long after breakfast, for I had told 
my mother that it was her birthday, and that I should 
be late. And such a thing' as my asking for an hour 
or two was so rare that I took it quite of course when 


CRUSOE IN NEV/ YORK. 


19 


I did ask. I came home early at night, too. Then I 
said, — 

“Now, sweetheart, the surprise requires that you 
spend the night away from home with me. Perhaps, 
if you like the place, we will spend to-morrow there. 
So I will take Poll in her cage, and you must put up 
your night-things and take them in your hand.” 

She was surprised now, for such a thing as an out- 
ing over night had never been spoken of before by 
either of us. 

“ Why, Kob,” she said, “ you are taking too much 
pains for your old sweetheart, and spending too much 
money for her birthday. Now, don’t you think that 
you should really have as good a time, say, if we went 
visiting, together, and then came back here ? ” 

For, you see, she never thought of herself at all; 
it was only what I should like most. 

“ No, sweetheart dear,” said I. “ It is not for me, 
this 13th of October, it is all for you. And to-night’s 
outing is not for me, it is for you; and I think 
you will like it and I think Poll will like it, and I 
have leave for to-morrow, and we will stay away all 
to-morrow.” 

As for Tom-puss, I said, we would leave some milk 
w 7 here he could find it, and I would leave a bone or 
tw r o for him. But I whistled Pip, my dog, after me. 
I took Poll’s cage, my mother took her bag, and locked 
and left her door, unconscious that she was never to 
enter it again. 

A Ninety-ninth Avenue car took us up to Fernando 
Street. It was just the close of twilight when we 


20 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


came there. I took my mother to Church Alley, 
muttered something about some friends, which she 
did not understand more than I did, and led her up 
the alley in her coiifused surprise. Then I pushed 
aside my movable hoard, and, while she was still 
surprised, led her in after me and slid it back again. 

“ What is it, dear Eob ? Tell me — tell me ! ” 

“ This way, sweetheart, this way ! ” This was all 
I would say. 

I drew her after me through the long passage, led 
her into the common-room, which was just lighted 
up by the late evening twilight coming in between 
the curtains of the great square window. Then I 
fairly pushed her to the great, roomy easy-chair wilich 
I had brought from The Ship, and placed it where she 
could look out on the evening glow, and I said, — 
“Mother, dear, this is the surprise; this is your 
new home ; and, mother dear, your own boy has made 
it with his own hands, all for you.” 

“ But, Eob, I do not understand — I do not under- 
stand at all. I am so stupid. I know I am awake. 
But it is as sudden as a dream ! ” 

So I had to begin and to explain it all, — how here 
was a vacant lot that Mark Henry had the care of, 
and how I had built this house for her upon it. And 
long before I had explained it all, it was quite dark. 
And I lighted up the pretty student’s-lamp, and I 
made the fire in the new Banner with my own 
hands. 

And that night I w^ould not let her lift a kettle, 
nor so much as cut a loaf of bread. It was my feast, 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


21 


I said, and I had everything ready, round to a loaf 
of birthday- cake which I had ordered at Taylor’s, 
which I had myself frosted and dressed, and deco- 
rated with the initials of my mother’s name. 

And when the feast was over, I had the best sur- 
prise of all. Unknown to my mother, I had begged 
from my Aunt Betsy my own father’s portrait, and 
I had hung that opposite the window, and now I 
drew the curtain that hid it, and told my sweetheart 
that this and the house were her birthday presents 
for this year ! 

And this was the beginning of a happy life, which 
lasted nearly twelve years. I could make a long 
story of it, for there was an adventure in everything, 
— in the way we bought our milk, and the way we 
took in our coals. But there is no room for me to 
tell all that, and it might not interest other people as 
it does . me. I am sure my mother was never sorry 
for the bold step she took when we moved there from 
our tenement. True, she saw little or no society, but 
she had not seen much before. The conditions of 
our life were such that she did not like to be seen 

✓ 

coming out of Church Alley, lest people should ask 
how she got in, and excepting in the evening, I did 
not care to have her go. In the evening I could go 
with her. She did not make many calls, because she 
could not ask people to return them. But she would 
go with me to concerts, and to the church parlor 
meetings, and sometimes to exhibitions ; and at such 
places, and on Sundays, she would meet, perhaps, 


22 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


one or another of the few friends she had in New 
York. But we cared for them less and less, I will 
own, and we cared more and more for each other. 

As soon as the first spring came, I made an im- 
mense effort, and spaded over nearly half of the lot. 
It was ninety feet wide, and over two hundred and 
sixty long — more than half an acre. So I knew we 
could have our own fresh vegetables, even if we never 
went to market. My mother was a good gardener, 
and she was not afraid even to hoe the corn when I 
was out of the way. I dare say that the people whom 
the summer left in the street above us often saw her 
from their back windows, but they did not know — as 
how should they ? — who had the charge of this lot, and 
there was no reason why they should be surprised to 
see a cornfield there. We only raised green corn. I 
am fond of Indian cake, but I did not care to grind 
my own corn, and I could buy sweet meal without 
trouble. I settled the milk question, after the first 
winter, by keeping our own goats. I fenced in, with 
a wire fence, the northwest corner of our little empire, 
and put there a milch goat and her two kids. The 
kids were pretty little things, and would come and 
feed from my mothers hand. We soon weaned them, 
so that we could milk their mother ; and after that 
our flock grew and multiplied, and we were never 
again troubled for such little milk as we used. 

Some old proprietor, in the old Dutch days, must 
have had an orchard in these parts. There were still 
left two venerable wrecks of ancient pear-trees ; and 
although they bore little fruit, and what they bore 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


23 


was good for nothing, they still gave a compact and 
grateful shade. I sodded the ground around them, 
and made a seat beneath, where my mother would 
sit with her knitting all the afternoon. Indeed, after 
the sods grew firm, I planted hoops there, and many 
a good game of croquet have she and I had together 
there, playing so late that we longed for the chance 
they have in Sybaris, where, in the evening, they 
use balls of colored glass, with fire-flies shut up 
inside. 

On the 11th of February, in the year 1867, my 
old master died, to my great regret, and I truly 
believe to that of his widow and her children. His 
death broke up the establishment, and I, who was 
always more of a cabinet-maker or joiner than car- 
penter or builder, opened a little shop of my own, 
where I took orders for cupboards, drawers, stairs, 
and other finishing work, and where I employed two 
or three German journeymen, and was thus much 
more master of my own time. In particular, I had 
two faithful fellows, natives of my own father’s town 
of Bremen. While they were with me, I could leave 
them a whole* afternoon at a time, while I took any 
little job there might be, and worked at it at my 
own house at home. Where my house was, except 
that it was far uptown, they never asked, nor ever, 
so far as I know, cared. This gave me the chance 
for many a pleasant afternoon with my mother, such 
as we had dreamed of in the old days when we talked 
of Kansas. I would work at the lathe or the bench, 
and she would read to me. Or we would put off the 


24 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


bench till the evening, and we would both go out 
into the cornfield together. 

And so we lived year after year. I am afraid that 
we worshipped ea'ch other too much. We were in 
the heart of a crowded city, but there was that in 
our lives which tended a little to habits of loneliness, 
and I suppose a moralist would say that our dangers 
lay in that direction. 

On the other hand, I am almost ashamed to say, 
that, as I sat in a seat I had made for myself in old 
Van der Tromp’s pear-tree, I would look upon my 
corn and peas and squashes and tomatoes with a 
satisfaction which I believe many a nobleman in 
England does not enjoy. 

Till the youngest of the Eordyce heirs was of age, 
and that would not be till 1880, this was all my 
own. I was, by right of possession and my own 
labors, lord of all this region. How else did the 
writers on political economy teach me that any 
property existed ! 

I surveyed it with a secret kind of pleasure. I 
had not abundance of pears ; what I had were poor and 
few. But I had abundance of sw’eet corn, of tomatoes, 
of peas, and of beans. The tomatoes were as whole- 
some as they were plentiful, and as I sat I could see 
.the long shelves of them which my mother had spread 
in the sun to ripen, that we might have enough of them 
canned when winter should close in upon us. I knew 
I should have potatoes enough of my own raising also 
to begin the winter with. I should have been glad 
of more. But as by any good day’s work I could buy 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


25 


two barrels of potatoes, I did not fret myself that 
my stock was but small. • 

Meanwhile my stock in bank grew fast. Neither 
my mother nor I had much occasion to buy new 
clothes. We w T ere at no charge for house-rent, in- 
surance, or taxes. I remember that a Spanish gen- 
tleman, who was fond of me, for whom I had made 
a cabinet with secret drawers, paid me in moidores 
and pieces-of-eight, which in those times of paper 
were a sight to behold. 

I carried home the little bag, and told my mother 
that this was a birthday present for her ; indeed, that 
she was to put it all in her bed that night, that she 
might say she had rolled in gold and silver. She 
played with the pieces, and we used them to count 
with, as -we played our game of cribbage. 

“ But really, Robin, boy,” said she, “ it is as the 
dirt under our feet. I would give it all for three or 
four pairs of shoes and stockings, such as we used 
to buy in York, but such as these Lynn-built shoes 
and steam-knit stockings have driven' out of the 
market.” 

Indeed, we wanted very little in our desert home. 

And so for many years we led a happy life, and 
we found more in life than would have been possible 
had we been all tangled up with the cords of artificial 
society. I say “ we,” for I am sure I did, and I think 
my dear mother did. 

But it was in the seventh year of our residence in 
the hut that of a sudden I had a terrible shock or 
fright, and this I must now describe to you. It comes 


26 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


in about the middle of this history, and it may end 
this chapter. 

It was one Sunday afternoon, when I had taken 
the fancy, as I often did of Sundays, to inspect my 
empire. Of course, in a certain way, I did this every 
time I climbed old Van der Tromp’s pear-tree, and 
sat in my hawk’s-nest there. But a tour of inspec- 
tion was a different thing. I walked close round the 
path which I had made next the fence of the in- 
closure. I went in among my goats, — even entered 
the goat-house and played with my kids. I tried 
the boards of the fence and the timber-stays, to be 
sure they all were sound. I had paths enough be- 
tween the rows of corn and potatoes to make a jour- 
ney of three miles and half a furlong, with two rods 
more, if I went through the whole of them. So at 
half-past four on this fatal afternoon I bade my 
mother good-by, and kissed her. I told her I should 
not be back for two hours, because I was going to 
inspect my empire, and I set out happily. 

But in less than an hour — I can see the face of 
the clock now : it was twenty-two minutes after five 
— I flung myself in my chair, panting for breath, 
and, as my mother said, as pale as if I had seen a 
ghost. But I told her it was worse than that. 

I had come out from between two high rows of 
corn, which wholly covered me, upon a little patch 
which lay warm to the south and west, where I had 
some melons a-ripening, and was just lifting one of 
the melons, to be sure that the under surface did not 
rot, when close behind it I saw the print of a man’s 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 27 

foot, which was very plain to he seen in the soft 
soil. 

I stood like one thunderstruck, or as if I had seen 
an apparition. I listened; I looked round me. I 
could hear nothing hut the roar of the omnibuses, 
nor could I see anything. I went up and down the 
path, hut it was all one. I could see no other im- 
pression but that one. I went to it again, to see if 
there were any more, and to observe if it might not 
be my fancy. But there was no room for that, for 
there was exactly the print of an Englishman’s hob- 
nailed shoe, — the heavy heel, the prints of the heads 
of the nails. There was even a piece of patch which 
had been put on it, though it had never been half- 
soled. 

How it came there I knew not; neither could I 
in the least imagine. But, as I say, like a man per- 
fectly confused and out of myself, I rushed home 
into my hut, not feeling the ground I went upon. 
I fled into it like one pursued, and, as my mother 
said, when I fell into my chair, panting, I looked as 
if I had seen a ghost. 

It was worse than that, as I said to her. 


28 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


PART II. 

T CANHOT well tell you how much dismay this 
-*■ sight of a footprint in the ground gave me, nor 
how many sleepless nights it cost me. All the time 
I was trying to make my mother think that there 
was no ground for anxiety, and yet all the time I 
was showing her that I was very anxious. The more 
I pretended that I was not troubled, the more absent- 
minded, and so the more troubled, I appeared to her. 
And yet, if I made no pretence, and told her what I 
really feared, I should have driven her almost wild 
by the story of my terrors. To have our pretty home 
broken up, perhaps to be put in the newspapers — 
which was a lot that, so far, we had always escaped 
in our quiet and modest life — all this was more than 
she or I could bear to think of. 

In the midst of these cogitations, apprehensions, and 
reflections, it came into my thoughts one day, as I was 
working at my shop down-town, with my men, that 
all this might be a chimera of my own, and that the 
foot might be the print of my own boot as I had left 
it in the soil some days before when I was looking at 
my melons. This cheered me up a little, too. I con- 
sidered that I could by no means tell for certain 
where I had trod and where I had not, and that if at 
last this was the print of my own boot, I had played 
the part of those fools who strive to make stories of 
spectres, and then are themselves frightened at them 
more than anybody else. 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


29 


So I returned home that day in very good spirits. 
I carried to my mother a copy of Frank Leslie’s Il- 
lustrated Newspaper, which had in it some pictures 
that I knew would please her, and I talked with her, 
in as light-hearted a way as I could, to try to make 
her think that I had forgotten my alarm. And after- 
ward we played two or three games of Egyptian sol- 
itaire at the table, and I went to bed unusually early. 
But, at the first break of day, when I fancied or 
hoped that she was still asleep, I rose quickly, and 
half-dressing myself, crept out to the melon-patch to 
examine again the imprint of the foot and to make 
sure that it was mine. 

Alas ! it was no more mine than it was Queen Vic- 
toria’s. If it had only been cloven, I could easily 
have persuaded myself whose it was, so much grief 
and trouble had it cost me. When I came to meas- 
ure the mark with my own boot, I found, just as I 
had seen before, that mine was not nearly so large as 
this mark was. Also, this was, as I have said, the 
mark of a heavy brogan — such as I never wore — 
and there was the mark of a strange patch near the 
toe, such as I had never seen, nor, indeed, have seen 
since, from that hour to this hour. All these things 
renewed my terrors. I went home like a whipped 
dog, wholly certain now that some one had found the 
secret of our home : we might be surprised in it be- 
fore I was aware; and what course to take for my 
security I knew not. 

As w r e breakfasted, I opened my whole heart to 
my mother. If she said so, I would carry all our little 


30 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


property, piece by piece, back to old Thunberg, the 
junk-dealer, and with her parrot and my umbrella we 
would go out to Kansas, as we used to propose. We 
would give up the game. Or, if she thought best, 
we would stand on the defensive. I would put bot- 
tle glass on the upper edges of the fences all the way 
round. 

There were four or five odd revolvers at The Ship, 
and I would buy them all, with powder and buck- 
shot enough for a long siege. I would teach her how 
to load, and while she loaded I would fire, till they 
had quite enough of attacking us in our home. Now 
it has all gone by, I should be ashamed to set down 
in writing the frightful contrivances I hatched for 
destroying these “creatures,” as I called them, or, 
at least, frightening them, so as to prevent their 
coming thither any more. 

“ Robin, my boy,” said my mother to me, when I 
gave her a chance at last, “ if they came in here to- 
night — whoever ‘ they * may be — very little is the 
harm that they could do us. But if Mr. Kennedy and 
twenty of his police should come in here over the 
bodies of — five times five are twenty-five, twenty-five 
times eleven are — two hundred and seventy-five peo- 
ple whom you will have killed by that time, if I load 
as fast as thee tells me I can, why, Robin, my boy, it 
will go hard for thee and me when the day of the 
assizes comes. They will put handcuffs on thy poor 
old mother and on thee, and if they do not send thee 
to J ack Ketch, they will send thee to Bloomingdale.” 

I could not but see that there was sense in what 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


31 


she said. Anyway, it cooled me down for the time, 
and I kissed her and went to my work less eager, 
and, indeed, less anxious, than I had been the night 
before. As I went down-town in the car, I had 
a chance to ask myself what right I had to take 
away the lives of these poor savages of the neighbor- 
hood merely because they entered on my possessions. 
Was it their fault that they had not been apprenticed 
to carpenters? Could they help themselves in the 
arrangements which , had left them savages ? Had 
any one ever given them a chance to fence in an up- 
town lot ? Was it, in a word, I said to myself — was 
it my merit or my good luck which made me as good 
as a landed proprietor, while the Fordyce heirs had 
their education? Such thoughts, before I came to 
my shop, had quite tamed me down, and when I 
arrived there I was quite off my design, and I con- 
cluded that I had taken a wrong measure in my res- 
olution to attack the savages, as I had begun to call 
men who might be merely harmless loafers. 

It was clearly not my business to meddle with 
them unless they first attacked me. This it was my 
business to prevent; if I were discovered and at- 
tacked, then I knew my duty. 

With these thoughts I went into my shop that day, 
and with such thoughts as these, and with my moth- 
er’s good sense in keeping me employed in pleasanter 
things than hunting for traces of savages, I got into 
a healthier way of thinking. 

The crop of melons came in well, and many a good 
feast we had from them. Once and again I was able 


32 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


to carry a nice fresh melon to an old lady my mother 
was fond of, who now lay sick with a tertian ague. 

Then we had the best sweet corn for dinner every 
day that any man had in New York. For, at Del- 
monico’s itself, the corn the grandees had had been 
picked the night before, and had started at two 
o’clock in the morning on its long journey to town. 
But my mother picked my corn just at the minute 
when she knew I was leaving my shop. She husked 
it, and put it in the pot, and, by the time I had come 
home, had slipped up the board in the fence that 
served me for a door, and had washed my face and 
hands in my own room, she would have dished her 
dinner, would have put her fresh corn upon the table, 
covered with a pretty napkin; and so, as I say, I 
had a feast which no nabob in New York had. No, 
indeed, nor any king that I know of, unless it were 
the King of the Sandwich Islands, and I doubt if he 
were as well served as I. 

So I became more calm and less careworn, though 
I will not say but sometimes I did look carefully to 
see if I could find the traces of a man’s foot ; but I 
never saw another. 

Unless we went out somewhere during the evening 
we went to bed early. We rose early as well, for I* 
never lost the habits of my apprenticeship. And so it 
happened that we were both sound asleep in bed one 
night, when a strange thing happened, and a sudden 
fright came to us, of which I must tell quite at length, 
for it made, indeed, a very sudden change in the cur- 
rent of our lives. 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


33 


I was sound asleep, as I said, and so, I found, was 
my mother also. But I must have been partly waked 
by some sudden noise in the street, for I knew I was 
sitting up in my bed, in the darkness, when I heard a 
woman scream, — a terrible cry, — and while I was 
yet startled, I heard her scream again, as if she were 
in deadly fear. My window was shaded by a heavy 
green curtain, but in an instant I had pulled it up, 
and, by the light of the moon, I seized my trousers 
and put them on. 

I was well awake by this time, and when I flung 
open the door of my house, so as to run into my gar- 
den, I could hear many wild voices, some in English, 
some in German, some in Irish, and some with terrible 
cries, which I will not pretend I could understand. 

There was no cry of a woman now, but only the 
howling of angry or drunken men, when they are in 
a rage with some one or with each other. What 
startled me was that, whereas the woman’s cry came 
from the street south of me, which I have called Fer- 
nando Street, the whole crowd of men, as they howled 
and swore, were passing along that street rapidly, and 
then stopped for an instant, as if they were coming 
up what I called Church Alley. There must have 
been seven or eight of them. 

Now, it was by Church Alley that my mother and 
I always came into our house, and so into our garden. 
In the eight years, or nearly so, that I had lived there, 
I had by degrees accumulated more and more rubbish 
near the furthest end of the alley as a screen, so to 
speak, that when my mother or I came in or out, no 

3 


34 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


one in the street might notice ns. I had even made 
a little wing-fence, out from my own, to which 
my hand-cart was chained. Next this I had piled 
broken brickbats and paving-stones, and other heavy 
things, that would not be stolen. There was the stump 
and the root of an old pear-tree there, too heavy to 
steal, and too crooked and hard to clean or saw. 
There was a bit of curbstone from the street, and other 
such trash, which quite masked the fence and the 
hand-cart. 

On the other side — that is, the church side, or the 
side furthest from the street — was the sliding-board 
in the fence, where my mother and I came in. So 
soon as it was slid back, no man could see that the 
fence w T as not solid. 

At this moment in the night, however, when I 
found that this riotous, drunken crew were pausing 
at the entrance of Church Alley, as doubting if they 
would not come down, I ran back through the passage, 
knocking loudly for my mother as I passed, and, com- 
ing to my coal-bin, put my eye at the little hole 
through which I always reconnoitred before I slid the 
door. I could see nothing, nor at night ought I to 
have expected to do so. 

But I could hear, and I heard what I did not ex- 
pect. I could hear the heavy panting of one who 
had been running, and as I listened I heard a gentle, 
low voice sob out, “ Ach, ach, mein Gott ! Ach, mein 
Gott ! ” or words that I thought were these, and I was 
conscious, when I tried to move the door, that some 
one was resting close upon it. 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


35 


All the same, I put my shoulder stoutly to the 
cross-bar, to which the boards of the door were nailed ; 
I slid it quickly in its grooves, and as it slid, a woman 
fell into the passage. 

She was wholly surprised by the motion, so that 
she could not but fall. I seized her and dragged her 
in, saying, “Hush, hush, hush ! ” as I did so. But not 
so quick was I but that she screamed once more 
as I drew to the sliding-door and thrust in the heavy 
bolt which held it. 

In an instant my mother was in the passage, with 
a light in her hand. In another instant I had seized 
the light and put it out. But that instant was enough 
for her and me to see that here was a lovely girl, with 
no hat or bonnet on, with her hair floating wildly, 
both her arms bleeding, and her clothes all stained 
with blood. She could see my mother’s face of amaze- 
ment; and she could see my finger on my mouth, as 
with the other I dashed out the candle. We all 
thought quickly, and we all knew that we must keep 
stilL 

But that unfortunate scream of hers was enough. 
Though no one of us all uttered another sound, this 
was like a “ view-halloo,” to bring all those dogs down 
upon us. The passage was dark, and, to my delight, 
I heard some of them breaking their shins over the 
curbstone and old pear-tree of my defences. But they 
were not such hounds as were easily thrown off* the 
scent, and there were enough to persevere while the 
leaders picked themselves up again. 

Then how they swore and cursed and asked ques- 


36 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


tions ! And we three stood as still as so many fright- 
ened rabbits. In an instant more, one of them, who 
spoke in English, said he would be hanged if he 
thought she had gone into the church, that he believed 
she had got through the fence ; and fhen, with his fist, 
or something harder, he began trying the boards on 
our side, and others of them we could hear striking 
those on the other side of the alley-way. 

When it came to this, I whispered to my mother 
that she must never fear, only keep perfectly still. 
She dragged the frightened girl into our kitchen, which 
was our sitting-room, and they both fell, I know not 
how, into the great easy-chair. 

For my part, I seized the light ladder, which always 
hung ready at the door, and ran with it at my full 
speed to the corner of Fernando Street and the alley. 
I planted the ladder, and was on the top of the fence 
in an instant. 

Then I sprang my watchman’s rattle, which had 
hung by the ladder, and I whirled it round well. It 
wholly silenced the sound of the swearing fellows up 
the passage, and their pounding. When I found they 
were still, I cried out : — 

“ This way, 24 ! this way, 47 ! I have them all 
penned up here ! Signal the office, 42, and bid them 
send us a sergeant. This way, fellows — up Church 
Alley!” 

With this I was down my ladder again. But my 
gang of savages needed no more. I could hear them 
rushing out of the alley as fast as they might, not one 
of them waiting for 24 or 47. This was lucky for me, 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


37 


for as it happened I was ten minutes older before I 
heard two patrolmen on the outside, wondering what 
frightened old cove had been at the pains to spring 
a rattle. 

The moonlight shone in at the western window of 
the kitchen, so that as I came in I could just make 
out the figure of my mother, and of the girl, lying, 
rather than sitting, in her lap and her arms. I was 
not afraid to speak now, and I told my mother we 
were quite safe again, and she told the poor girl so. 
I struck a match and lighted the lamp as soon as I 
could. The poor, frightened creature started as I did 
so, and then fell on her knees at my mother’s feet, 
took both her hands in her own, and seemed like one 
who begs for mercy, or, indeed, for life. 

My poor, dear mother was all amazed, and her eyes 
were running with tears at the sight of the poor thing’s 
terror. She kissed her again and again ; she stroked 
her beautiful golden hair with her soft hands; she 
said in every word that she could think of that she was 
quite safe now, and must not think of being fright- 
ened any more. 

But it was clear in a moment that the girl could 
not understand any . language that we could speak. 
My mother tried her with a few words of German, 
and she smiled then ; but she shook her head prettily, 
as if to say that she thanked her, but could not speak 
to her in that way either. Then she spoke eagerly in 
some language that we could not understand. But 
had it been the language of Hottentots, we should 
have known that she was begging my mother not to 


38 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


forsake her, so full of entreaty was every word and 
every gesture. 

My dear, sweet mother lifted her at last into the easy 
chair and made her lie there while she dipped some 
hot water from her boiler and filled a large basin in 
her sink. Then she led the pretty creature to it, and 
washed from her arms, hands, and face the blood that 
had hardened upon them, and looked carefully to find 
what her wounds were. None of them were deep, 
though there were ugly scratches on her beautiful 
arms ; they were cut by glass, as I guessed then, and 
as we learned from her afterward. My mother was 
wholly prepared for all such surgery as w^as needed 
here; she put on two bandages where she thought 
they were needed, she plastered up the other scratches 
with court-plaster, and then, as if the girl understood 
her, she said to her, “ And now, my dear child, you 
must come to bed ; there is no danger for you more.” 

The poor girl had grown somewhat reassured in the 
comfortable little kitchen, but her terror seemed to 
come back at any sign of- removal ; she started to her 
feet, almost as if she were a wild creature. But I 
would defy any one to be afraid of my dear mother, or 
indeed to refuse to do what she bade, when she smiled 
so in her inviting way and put out her hand ; and so 
the girl went with her, bowing to me, or dropping a 
sort of courtesy in her foreign fashion, as she went 
out of the door, and I was left to see what damage had 
been done to my castle by the savages, as I called 
them. 

I had sprung the rattle none too soon ; for one of 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


39 


these rascals, as it proved — I suppose it was the same 
who swore that she had not gone into the church — with 
some tool or other he had in his hand, had split out 
a bit of the fence and had pried out a part of a plank. 
I had done my work too well for any large piece to 
give way. But the moment I looked into my coal-bin 
I saw that something was amiss. I did not like very 
well to go to the outside, but I must risk something ; 
so I took out a dark lantern which I always kept 
ready. Sure enough, as I say, the fellow had struck 
so hard and so well that he had split out a piece of 
board, and a little coal even had fallen upon the 
passage-way. I w T as not much displeased at this, for 
if he thought no nearer the truth than that he had 
broken into a coal-bin of the church, why, he was far 
enough from his mark for me. After finding this, 
however, I was anxious enough, lest any of them should 
return, not to go to bed again that night ; but all was 
still as death, and, to tell the truth, I fell asleep in 
my chair. I doubt whether my mother slept, or her 
frightened charge. 

I was at work in the passage early the next morning 
with some weather-stained boards I had, and before 
nine o’clock I had doubled all that piece of fence, 
from my wing where my hand-cart was to the church, 
and I had spiked the new boards on, which looked like 
old boards, as I said, with tenpenny nails ; so that he 
would be a stout burglar who would cut' through them 
uuless he had tools for his purpose and daylight to 
work by. As I was gathering up my tools to go in, 
a coarse, brutal-looking Irishman came walking up the 


40 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


alley and looked round. My work was so well done, 
and I had been so careful to leave no chips, that even 
then he could not have guessed that I had been build- 
ing the fence anew, though I fancied he looked at it. 
He seemed to want to excuse himself for being there 
at all, and asked me, with an oath and in a broad 
Irish brogue, if there were no other passage through. 
I had the presence of mind to say in German, “ Wollen 
s ie sprechen Deutsch ? ” and so made as if I could not 
understand him ; and then, kneeling on the cellar- 
door of the church, pretended to put a key into the 
lock, as if I were making sure that I had made it 
firm. 

And with that, he turned round with another oath, 
as if he had come out of his way, and went out of the 
alley, closely followed by me. I watched him as long 
as I dared, but as he showed no sign of going back to 
the alley, I at last walked round a square with my 
tools, and so came back to my mother and the pretty 
stranger. 

My mother had been trying to get at her story. 
She made her understand a few words of German, but 
they talked by signs and smiles and tears and kisses 
much more than by words ; and by this time they 
understood each other so well that my mother had 
persuaded her not to go away that day. 

Nor did she go out for many days after; I will go 
before my story far enough to say that. She had, in- 
deed, been horribly frightened that night, and she 
was as loath to go out again into the streets of New 
York as I should be to plunge from a safe shore into 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


41 


some terrible, howling ocean ; or, indeed, as one who 
found himself safe at home would be to trust himself 
to the tender mercies of a tribe of cannibals. 

Two such loving women as they were were not long 
in building up a language, especially as my mother 
had learned from my father and his friends, in her 
early life, some of the common words of German — 
what she called a bread-and-butter German. For our 
new inmate was a Swedish girl. Her story, in short, 
was this : — 

She had been in Hew York but two days. On the 
voyage over, they had had some terrible sickness on 
the vessel, and the poor child’s mother had died very 
suddenly and had been buried in the sea. Her father 
had died long before. 

This was, as you may think, a terrible shock to her. 
But she had hoped and hoped for the voyage to come 
to an end, because there was a certain brother of hers 
in America whom they were to meet at their landing, 
and though she was very lonely on the packet-ship, 
in which she and her mother and a certain family of 
the name of Hantsen — of whom she had much to say 
- — were the only Swedes, still she expected to find the 
brother almost as soon, as I may say, as they saw 
the land. 

She felt badly enough that he did not come on board 
with the quarantine officer. When the passengers were 
brought to Castle Garden, and no brother came, she 
felt worse. However, with the help of the clerks there, 
she got off a letter to him, somewhere in Jersey, and 
proposed to wait as long as they would let her, till 
he should come. 


42 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


The second day there came a man to the Garden, 
who said he was a Dane, but he spoke Swedish well 
enough. He said her brother was sick, and had sent 
him to find her. She was to come with her trunks, 
and her mother’s, and all their affairs, to his house, 
and the same afternoon they should go to where the 
brother was. 

Without doubt or fear she went with this man, 
and spent the day at a forlorn sort of hotel which 
she described, but which I never could find again. 
Toward night the man came again, and bade her 
take a bag, with her own change of dress, and come 
with him to her brother. 

After a long ride through the city, they got out 
at a house which, thank God ! was only one block 
from Fernando Street. And there this simple, in- 
nocent creature, as she went in, asked where her 
brother was, to meet only a burst of laughter from 
one or two coarse-looking men, and from half-a-dozen 
brazen-faced girls, whom she hated, she said, the min- 
ute she saw them. 

Except that an old woman took off her shawl and 
cloak and bonnet, and took away from her the travel- 
ling things she had in her hand, nobody took any 
care of her but to laugh at her, and mock her if she 
dared say anything. 

She tried to go out to the door to find even the 
Dane who had brought her there, but she was given 
to understand that he was coming again for her, and 
that she must wait till he came. As for her brother, 
there was no brother there, nor had been any. The 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


43 


poor girl had been trapped, and saw that she had 
been trapped ; she had been spirited away from every- 
body who ever heard of her mother, and was in the 
clutches, as she said to my mother afterward, of a crew 
of devils who knew nothing of love or of mercy. 

They did try to make her eat and drink — tried to 
make her drink champagne, or any other wine ; but 
they had no fool to deal with. The girl did not, I 
think, let her captors know how desperate were her 
resolutions. But her eyes were wide open, and she 
was not going to lose any chance. She was all on 
the alert for her escape when, at eleven o’clock, the 
Dane came at last whom she had been expecting so 
anxiously. 

The girl asked him for her brother, only to be put 
off by one excuse or another, and then to hear from 
him the most loathsome talk of his admiration, not 
to say his passion, for her. 

They were nearly alone by this time, and he led 
her unresisting, as he thought, into another smaller 
room, brilliantly lighted, and, as she saw in a glance, 
gaudily furnished, with wine and fruit and cake on 
a side-table, — a room where they would be quite 
alone. 

* She walked simply across and looked at herself in 
the great mirror. Then she made some foolish little 
speech about her hair, and how pale she looked. 
Then she crossed to the sofa, and sat upon it with as 
tired an air as he might have expected of one who 
had lived through such a day. Then she looked up 
at him, and even smiled upon him, she said, and 


44 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


asked him if he would not ask them for some cold 
water. 

The fellow turned into the passage-way, well pleased 
with her submission, and in the same instant the 
girl was at the window as if she had flown across 
the room. 

Tool! The window was made fast, not by any 
moving bolt, either. It was nailed down, and it did 
not give a hair’s-breadth to her hand. 

Little cared she for that. She sat on the window- 
seat, which was broad enough to hold her ; she braced 
her feet against the foot of the bedstead, which stood 
just near enough to her; she turned enough to bring 
her shoulder against the window-sash, and then with 
her whole force she heaved herself against the sash, 
and the entire window, of course, gave way. . 

The girl caught herself upon the blind, which 
swung open before her. She pulled herself free from 
the sill and window-seat, and dropped fearless into 
the street. 

The fall was not long. She lighted on her feet, and 
ran as. only fear could teach her to run. Where to, 
she knew not ; but she thought she turned a corner 
before she heard any voices from behind. 

Still she ran. And it was when she came to the 
corner of the next street that she heard for the first 
time the screams of pursuers. 

She turned again, like a poor hunted hare as she 
was. But what was her running to theirs ? She was 
passing our long fence in Fernando Street, and then 
for the first time she screamed foi help. 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


45 


It was that scream which waked me. 

She saw the steeple of the church. She had a dim 
feeling that a church would be an asylum. So was 
it that she ran up our alley, to find that she was in a 
trap there. 

And then it was that she fell against my door, that 
she cried twice, “ Oh, my God ! Oh, my God ! ” and 
that the good God who had heard her sent me to 
draw her in. 

We had to learn her language, in a fashion, and 
she to learn ours, before we understood her story in 
this way. But at the very first my mother made out 
that the girl had fled from savages who meant worse 
than death for her. So she understood why she was 
so frightened at every sound, and why at first she 
was afraid to stay with us, yet more afraid to go. 

But this passed off in a day or two. She took to 
my mother with a sort of eager way which showed 
how she must have loved her own mother, and how 
much she lost when she lost her. And that was one 
of the parts of her sad story that we understood. 

No one, I think, could help loving my mother ; but 
here was a poor, storm-tossed creature, who, I might 
say, had nothing else to love, seeing she had lost all 
trace of this brother, and here was my mother, sooth- 
ing her, comforting her, dressing her wounds for her, 
trying to make her feel that God’s world was not all 
wickedness; and the girl in return poured out her 
whole heart. 

When my mother explained to her that she should 
not let her go away till her brother was found, then 


46 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


for the first time she seemed perfectly happy. She 
was indeed the loveliest creature I ever put my eyes 
on. 

She was then about nineteen years old, of a delicate 
complexion naturally, which was now a little browned 
by the sea-air. She was rather tall than otherwise, 
but her figure was so graceful that I think you never 
thought her tall. Her eyes were perhaps deep* set, 
and of that strange gray which I have heard it said 
the goddesses in the Greek poetry had. Still, when 
she was sad, one saw the less of all this. It was not 
till she forgot her grief for the instant in the cer- 
tainty that she might rest with my mother, so 
that her whole face blazed with joy, that I ‘first 
knew what the perfect beauty of a perfect woman 
was. 

Her name, it seemed, was Frida, — a name made 
from the name of one of the old goddesses among 
the Northmen, the same from whom our day Friday 
is named. She is the half-sister of Thor, from whom 
Thursday is named, and the daughter of Odin, from 
whom Wednesday is named. 

I knew little of all this then, but I did not wonder 
when I read afterward that this northern goddess was 
the Goddess of Love, the friend of song, the most 
beautiful of all their divinities, — queen of spring and 
light and everything lovely. 

But surely never any one took fewer of the airs 
of a goddess than our Frida did while she was 
with us. She would watch my mother, as if afraid 
that she should put her hand to a gridiron or a tin 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


47 


dipper. She gave her to understand, in a thousand 
pretty ways, that she should he her faithful, loving, 
and sincere servant. If she would only show her 
what to do, she would work for her as a child that 
loved her. And so indeed she did. My dear mother 
would laugh and say she was quite a fine lady now, 
for Frida would not let her touch broom nor mop, 
skimmer nor dusting-cloth. 

The girl would do anything hut go out upon an 
errand. She could not bear to see the other side of 
the fence. What she thought of it all I do not know. 
Whether she thought it was the custom in America 
for young men to live shut up with their mothers in 
inclosures of half an acre square, or whether she 
thought we two made some peculiar religious order, 
whos§ rules provided that one woman and one man 
should live together in a convent or monastery of 
their own, or whether she supposed half New York 
was made up, as Marco Polo found Pekin, of cottages 
or of gardens, I did not know, nor did I much care. 
I could see that here was provided a companion for 
my mother, who was else so lonely, and I very soon 
found that she was as much a companion for me. 

So soon as we could understand her at all, I took 
the name of her brother and his address. When he 
wrote last he was tending a saw-mill at a place about 
seven miles away from Tuckahoe, in Jersey. But he 
said he was going to leave there at once, so that they 
need not write there. He sent the money for their 
passage, and promised, as I said, to meet them at 
New York. 


48 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


This was a poor clew at the best. But I put a good 
face on it, and promised her I would find him if he 
could be found. And I spared no pains. I wrote to 
the postmaster at Tuckahoe, and to a minister I heard 
of there. I inquired of the Swedish consuls in New 
York and Philadelphia. Indeed, in the end, I went 
to Tuckahoe myself, with her, to inquire. But this 
was long after. However, I may say here, once for 
all, to use an old phrase of my mother’s, we never 
found “ hide nor hair ” of him. And although this 
grieved Frida, of course, yet it came on her gradually, 
and, as she had never seen him to remember him, it 
was not the same loss as if they had grown up to- 
gether. 

Meanwhile that first winter was, I thought, the 
pleasantest I had ever known in my life. I did not 
have to work very hard now, for my business was 
rather the laying out work for my men, and sometimes 
a nice job which needed my hand on my lathe at 
home, or in some other delicate affair that I could 
bring home with me. 

We were teaching Frida English, my mother and 
I, and she and I made a great frolic of her teaching 
me Swedish. I would bring home Swedish news- 
papers and stories for her, and we would puzzle them 
out together, — she as much troubled to find the 
English word' as I to find out the Swedish. Then 
she sang like a bird, when she was about her house- 
hold work, or when she sat sewing for my mother, 
and she had not lived with us a fortnight before she 
began to join us on Sunday evenings in the choruses 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


49 


of the Methodist hymns which my mother and I 
sang together. So then we made her sing Swedish 
hymns to ns. And, before she knew it, the great 
tears would brim over her deep eyes, and would run 
down in pearls upon her cheek. Nothing set her to 
thinking of her old home as those Sunday evenings 
did. Of a Sunday evening we could make her go out 
with us to church sometimes. Not but then she would 
half cover her face with a vail, so afraid was she that 
we might meet the Dane. But I told her that the 
last place we should find him at would be at church 
on Sunday evening. 

I have come far in advance of my story, that I 
might make any one who reads this life of mine to 
understand how naturally and simply this poor lost 
bird nestled down into our quiet life, and how the 
house that was built for two proved big enough for 
three. For I made some new purchases now, and 
fitted up the little middle chamber for Frida’s own 
use. We had called it the “spare chamber” before, 
in joke. But now my mother fitted pretty curtains 
to it, and other hangings, without Frida’s knowledge. 
I had a square of carpet made up at the warehouse 
for the middle of the floor, and, by making her do 
one errand and another in the corner of the garden, 
one pleasant afternoon in November, we had it all 
prettily fitted up for her room before she knew it. 
And a great gala we made of it when she came in 
from gathering the seeds of the calystegia, which she 
had been sent for. 

She looked like a northern Flora, as she came in, 

4 


50 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


with her arms all festooned by the vines she had 
been pulling down. And when my mother made her 
come out to [the door she had never seen opened 
before, and led her in, and told her that this pretty 
chamber was all her own, the pretty creature flushed 
crimson red at first, and then her quick tears ran 
over, and she fell on my mother’s neck, and kissed 
her as if she would never be done. And then she 
timidly held her hand out to me, too, as I stood in 
the doorway, and said, in her slow, careful English, — 

“ And you, too — and you, too. I must tank you 
both, also, especially. You are so good — so good to 
de poor lost girl ! ” That was a very happy evening. 

But, as I say, I have gone ahead of my story. For 
before we had these quiet evenings we were fated to 
have many anxious ones and one stormy one. 

The very first day that Frida was with us, I felt 
sure that the savages would make another descent 
upon us. They had heard her scream, that was cer- 
tain. They knew she had not passed them, that was 
certain. They knew there was a coal-bin on the other 
side of our fence, that was certain. They would have 
reason enough for being afraid to have her at large, 
if, indeed, there were no worse passion than fear driv- 
ing some of them in pursuit of her. I could not 
keep out of my mind the beastly look of the Irish- 
man, who asked me, with such an ugly leer on his 
face, if there were no passage through. Not that I 
told either of the two women of my fears. But, all 
the same, I did not undress myself for a week, and 
sat in the great easy-chair in our kitchen through 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


51 


tlie whole of every night, waiting for the least sound 
of alarm. 

Next to the savages, I had always lived in fear- of 
being discovered in my retreat by the police, who 
would certainly think it strange to find a man and 
his mother living in a shed, without any practicable 
outside door, in what they called a vacant lot. 

But I have read of weak nations in history which 
were fain to call upon one neighbor whom they did 
not like, to protect them against another whom they 
liked less. I made up my mind, in like wise, to go 
round to the police-station nearest me. 

And so, having dressed myself in my black coat, 
and put on a round hat and gloves, I bought me a 
Malacca walking-stick, such as was then in fashion, 
and called upon the captain in style. I told him I 
lived next the church, and that, on such and such a 
night, there was a regular row among roughs, and 
that several of them went storming up the alley in 
a crowd. I said, “Although your men were there 
as quick as they could come, these fellows had all 
gone before they came.” But then I explained that 
I had seen a fellow hanging about the alley in the 
daytime, wdio seemed to be there for no good ; that 
there was a hand-cart kept there by a workman, who 
seemed' to be an honest fellow, and, perhaps, all they 
wanted was to steal that ; that, if I could, I would 
warn him. But, meanwhile, I said, I had come round 
to the station to give the warning of my suspicions, 
that, if my rattle was heard again, the patrolmen 
might know what was in the wind. 


52 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


The captain was a good deal impressed by my 
make-up and by the ease of my manner. He affected 
to be perfectly well acquainted with me, although we 
had never happened to meet at the Century Club or 
at the Union League. I confirmed the favorable 
impression I had made by leaving my card which 
I had had handsomely engraved: “Mr. Robinson 
Crusoe.” With my pencil I added my down-town 
address, where, I said, a note or telegram would find 
me. 

I was not a day too soon with my visit to this gen- 
tleman. That very night, after my mother and Frida 
had gone to bed, as I sat in my easy-chair, there came 
over me one of those strange intimations which I have 
never found it safe to disregard. Sometimes it is of 
good, and sometimes of bad. This time it made me 
certain that all was not well. To relieve my fears I 
lifted my ladder over the wall, and dropped it in the 
alley. I swung myself down, and carried it to the very 
end of the alley, to the place where I had dragged 
poor Frida in. The moon fell on the fence opposite 
ours. My wing-fence and hand-cart were all in shade. 
But everything was safe there. 

Again I chided myself for my fears, when, as I 
looked up the alley to the street, I saw a group of 
four men come in stealthily. They said not a word, 
but I could make out their forms distinctly against 
the houses opposite. 

I was caught in my own trap ! 

Hot quite ! They had not seen me. for I was 
wholly in shadow. I stepped quickly in at my own 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


53 


slide. I pushed it back and bolted it securely, and 
with my heart in my mouth, I waited at my hole of 
observation. In a minute more they were close around 
me, though they did not suspect I was so near. 

They, also, had a dark-lantern, and, I thought, more 
than one. They spoke in low tones ; hut, as they 
had no thought they had a hearer quite so near, I 
could hear all they said. 

“ I tell you it was this side, and this is the side 
I heard their deuced psalm-singing, day before yes- 
terday.” 

“What if he did hear psalm-singing? Are you 
going to break into a man’s garden because he sings 
psalms ? I came here to find out where the girl 
went to ; and now you talk of psalm-singing and 
coal-bins.” This from another, whose English was 
poor, and in whom I fancied I heard the Dane. 
It was clear enough that he spoke sense, and a sort 
of doubt fell on the whole crew ; but speaker No. 1, 
with a heavy crowbar he had, smashes into my pine 
wall, as I have a right to call it now, with a force 
which made the splinters fly. 

“ I should think we were all at Niblo’s,” said a man 
of slighter build, " and that we were playing Humpty 
Dumpty. Because a girl flew out of a window, you 
think a fence opened to take her in. Why should 
she not go through a door ? ” and he kicked with his 
foot upon the heavy sloping cellar-door of the church, 
which just rose a little from the pavement. It w~as 
the doorway which they used there when they took 
in their supply of coal. .The moon fell full on one 


54 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


side of it. To my surprise it was loose and gave 
way. 

“ Here is where the girl flew to, and here is where 
Bully Bigg, the donkey, let her slip out of his fingers. 
I knew he was a fool, but I did not know he was 
such a fool,” said the Dane (if he were the Dane). 

I will not pretend to write down the oaths and 
foul words which came in between every two of the 
words I have repeated. 

“ Fool } r ourself ! ” replied the Bully ; “ and what sort 
of a fool is the man who comes up a blind alley, looking 
after a girl that will not kiss him when he bids her ? ” 

“ Anyway,” put in another of the crew, who had 
just now lifted the heavy cellar-door, “ other people 
may find it handy to hop down here when the ‘ beaks * 
are too near them. It ? s a handy place to know of, 
in a dark night, if the dear deacons do choose to 
keep it open for a poor psalm-singing tramp, w 7 ho 
has no chance at the station-house. Here, Lopp, you 
are the tallest — jump in and tell us what is there” ; 
and at this moment the Dane caught sight of my 
unfortunate ladder, lying full in the moonlight. I 
could see him seize it, and run to the doorway with 
it, with a deep laugh, and some phrase of his own 
country talk, which I did not understand. 

“ The deacons are very good,” said the savage who 
had lifted the cellar-door. “They make everything 
handy for us poor fellow’s.” 

And though he had not planted the ladder, he was 
the first to run down, and called for the rest to follow. 
The Dane was second, Lopp was third, and “ The 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


55 


Bully,” as the big rascal seemed to be called by dis- 
tinction, was the fourth. 

I saw him disappear from my view, with a mixture 
of wonder and terror which I will not describe. I 
seized my light overcoat, which always hung in the 
passage. I flung open my sliding-door, and shut it 
again behind me. I looked into the black of the 
cellar to see the reflections from their distant lanterns, 
and, without a sound, I drew up my ladder. Then I ran 
to the head of the alley, and sounded my rattle as I 
would have sounded the trumpet for a charge in battle. 
The officers joined me in one moment. 

“ I am the man who spoke to the captain about 
these rowdies. Four of them are in the cellar of the 
church yonder now.” 

“ Do you know who ? ” 

“ One they called Lopp, and one they called Bully 
Bigg,” said I. “ I do not know the others’ names.” 

The officers were enraptured. 

I led them, and two other patrolmen who joined 
us, to the shelter of my wing-wall. In a few min- 
utes the head of the Dane appeared, as he was lifted 
from below. With an effort and three or four oaths, 
he struggled out upon the ground, to be seized and 
gagged the moment he stepped back. With varying 
fortunes, Bigg and Lopp emerged, and were seized 
and handcuffed in turn. The fourth surrendered on 
being summoned. 

What followed comes into the line of daily life and. 
the morning newspaper so regularly that I need not 
describe it. Against the Dane it proved that endless 


56 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


warrants could be brought immediately. His lair of 
stolen baggage and other property was unearthed, 
and countless sufferers claimed their own. I was 
able to recover Frida’s and her mother’s possessions 
— the locks on the trunks still unbroken. The Dane 
himself would have been sent to the Island on I 
know not how many charges, but that the Danish 
minister asked for him that he might be hanged in 
Denmark, and he was sent and hanged accordingly. 

Lopp was sent to Sing-Sing for ten years, and has 
not yet been pardoned. 

Bigg and Cordon were sent to Blackwell’s Island 
for three years each. And so the land had peace for 
that time. 


That winter, as there came on one and another idle 
alarm that Frida’s brother might be heard from, my 
heart sank with the lowest terror lest she should go 
away. And in the spring I told her that if she went 
away I was sure I should die. And the dear girl looked 
down, and looked up, and said she thought — she 
thought she should, too. And we told my mother 
that we had determined that Frida should never go 
away while we stayed there. And she approved. 

So I wrote a note to the minister of the church 
which had protected us so long, and one night we slid 
the board carefully, and all three walked round, fear- 
less of the Dane, and Frida and I were married. 

It was more than three years after, when I received, 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK . 


57 


by one post, three letters, which gave ns great ground 
for consultation. The first was from my old ^riend 
and patron, the Spaniard. He wrote to me from 
Chicago, where he, in his turn, had fallen in with a 
crew of savages, who had stripped him of all he had, 
under the pretext of a land-enterprise they engaged 
him in, and had left him without a real, as he said. 
He wanted to know if I could not find him some 
clerkship, or even some place as janitor, in Hew York. 

The second letter was from old Mr. Henry in Phil- 
adelphia, who had always employed me after my old 
master’s death. He said that the fence around the 
lot in Ninety-ninth Avenue might need some repairs, 
and he wished I would look at it. He was growing 
old, he said, and he did not care to come to New 
York. But the Eordyce heirs would spend ten years 
in Europe. 

The third letter was from Tom Grinnell. 

I wrote to Mr. Henry that I thought he had 
better let me knock up a little office, where a keeper 
might sleep, if necessary ; that there was some stuff 
with which I could put up such an office, and that 
I had an old friend, a Spaniard, who was an honest 
fellow, and if he might have his bed in the office, 
would take gratefully whatever his services to the 
estate proved worth. He wrote me by the next 
day’s mail that I might engage the Spaniard and 
finish the office. So I wrote to the Spaniard and got 
a letter from him, accepting the post provided for 
him. Then I wrote to Tom •Grinnell. 

The last day we spent at our dear old home, I occu- 


58 


CRUSOE IN NEW YORK. 


pied myself in finishing the office as Friend Henry 
bade me. I made a “ practicable door,” which opened 
from the passage on Church Alley. Then I loaded 
my hand-cart with my own chest, and took it myself, 
in my working clothes, to the Vanderbilt Station, where 
I took a brass check for it. 

I could not wait for the Spaniard, but I left a letter 
for him, giving him a description of the way I man- 
aged the goats, and directions to milk and fatten 
them, and to make both butter and cheese. 

At half-past ten, a “crystal,” as those cabs were 
then called, came to the corner of Fernando Street 
and Church Alley, and so we drove to the station. I 
left the key of the office, directed to the Spaniard, in 
the hands of the baggage-master. 

When I took leave of my castle, as I called it, I 
carried with me for relics the great straw hat I had 
made, my umbrella, and one of my parrots; also I 
forgot not to take the money I formerly mentioned, 
which had lain by me so long useless that it was 
grown rusty and tarnished, and could scarcely pass 
for money till it had been a little rubbed and 
handled. With these relics, and with my wife’s and 
mother’s baggage and my own chest, we arrived at 
our new home. 


ALIF-LAILA. 


THE ORIGIN OF THE “SERIAL” 


npiIE monthly magazine, as known to our West- 
ern civilization, dates, of course, from a period 
this side of the re-invention of printing in Europe, 
or of what Bishop Whately wisely calls the introduc- 
tion of paper in the West. Our sets of monthlies, 
bi-monthlies, and semi-monthlies only run back a 
hundred or two years, therefore — to the joy of libra- 
rians, to whom, be it confessed, they bring misery 
untold. 

But in the East, where printing has existed so 
long that the memory of man goes not to the con- 
trary, it is almost impossible to say how far back was 
the introduction of the monthly literary magazine. 
This publication was accompanied with certain ad- 
vantages and certain disadvantages, which sprang 
from the peculiarities of the Eastern calendar. The 
Eastern month being lunar, the magazine, if accuracy 
were consulted, had to be issued once in twenty-nine 
days, twelve hours, and forty-four minutes. On the 
other hand, the people of the East are less exacting 
or precise than we are in their estimates of time 


60 


ALIF-LAILA. 


and in the long run, if they had thirteen monthlies in 
one year, and twelve in each of the next two years, 
it generally proved that subscribers were satisfied. 

There is a story of two of these early magazines — 
universally known through the East, where, indeed, 
it is told in many exaggerated and impossible forms 
— which is worth repeating for Western readers not 
yet familiar with it. It gives both instruction and 
warning in an age in which every boy in college, and 
every girl in a “ female seminary,” regards magazine- 
writing as the chief end of man and of woman, — an 
age in which editors are feeling round, somewhat 
blindly, to know what their rights may be, or whether, 
in fact, they have any rights, which is doubtful. The 
story simply told, without any of the absurd adorn- 
ments which are put upon it in the East, teaches all 
men how some of the most difficult editorial ques- 
tions were decided there, and what are the delicate 
relations between contributors and the public. 

Ear back in the period of mythical history in the 
East two brothers, men of spirit, tact, shrewdness, and 
literary culture, conducted at the same time two 
monthly magazines. The offices of publication were 
so far from each other, and the “ constituencies ” were 
so different, that the two journals did not in the least 
interfere with each other. Those were in the happy 
days when there were no mails ; and each magazine 
had its own staff and its own contributors, the one 
set skilled in the language and literature of Tartary, 
and the other in those of India. Though the two 
brothers loved each other, they seldom exchanged 


ALIF-LAILA. 


61 


letters, and the chosen contributors of one journal 
never sent articles to the other. 

One of these magazines, called the “ Friend of the 
City,” in their queer Eastern way, was published at 
Delhi. The other, called the “ King of the Age,” was 
published at Samarcand. Each of them achieved 
great popularity, and, by virtue of its popularity, 
great power. At Delhi, . in particular, the editor 
became the real controlling power in the city, and in 
what we call the kingdom. Not but what there was 
some kind of a sachem or mikado, who in after ages 
would have been called a sultan or an emperor, who 
did not edit the magazine, but was kept for or by his 
sins in a certain prison, which he called a palace, 
which stood where Shah Jehan long after built his 
magnificent abode. But this poor dog of a mikado 
had nothing to do with the real government. He 
had to put his seal to a good many documents, and 
he had to settle a horrible mess of quarrels among 
his servants and harem people every day ; and some- 
times he had the bore of turning out in the hot sun, 
with umbrellas and elephants and bands of music, 
and so on, to receive some foreign embassy. This he 
called reigning, and a very stupid life it was, and 
very hard work did it bring upon him. But all the 
fun of command, all the real disposition of the forces 
of Delhi and that country, and all the comfort of life 
which comes from success and the “joy of eventful 
living,” these came, not to this poor shah, mogul, 
sultan, emperor, or sachem, or ’whatever you choose 
to call him, but to the editor of the “Friend of the 


62 


ALIF-LAILA. 


City.” He drove his span of horses when he chose 
and as he chose, he sent the army where he chose 
when he chose, and he dictated the terms of the 
treaties with the foreign powers. All this he did 
because he had a large subscription list and he edited 
well. 

With similar success, though with some difference 
in form, his younger brother edited the “ King of the 
Age” at distant Samarcand. Now you ought to 
know, dear reader, what I am sorry to say you do not 
know, that Samarcand is far, far away from Delhi. 
It is more than a thousand miles, were a carrier-dove 
flying to his love in Delhi from his cage in Samar- 
cand ; and when you come to tedious travelling by 
camels and horses and asses — why, there are rivers 
and mountains between, and the ways, such as they 
are, turn hither and thither, so that the journey is 
two thousand miles or more. All the same, the edi- 
tor of the “ Friend of the City” dearly loved his 
brother who edited the “ King of the Age ” ; and 
after they had been parted twenty years, he felt so 
strong a desire to see this brother that he directed 
his chief assistant editor to repair to him at Samar- 
cand and to bring him. 

Having taken the advice of this sub-editor, who 
was a more practical person than he was, he gave 
orders to prepare handsome presents, such as horses 
adorned with costly jewels, and mamelukes and beau- 
tiful virgins, and the most expensive stuffs of India. 
He then wrote a letter to his brother, in which he 
told him how eager he was to see him ; and having 


ALIF-LA.IL A. 


63 


sealed it and given it to the sub-editor, together with 
the presents, he bade him strain his nerves and tuck 
up his skirts, and go and return as quickly as possible- 
The sub-editor answered, “ I hear, and I obey.” He 
packed his baggage and made ready his provisions in 
three days, and on the fourth day he departed and 
went toward the wastes and the mountains. He 
travelled night and day. The different news-agents 
in the provinces where he stopped came forth to meet 
him with costly presents and gifts of gold and silver, 
and accounts of sales and orders for back numbers 
and bound volumes, and each news-agent accompa- 
nied the sub-editor one day’s journey. Thus he con- 
tinued until he approached the city of Samarcand, 
when he sent forward a messenger to the editor of 
the “ King of the Age ” to inform him of his approach* 
The messenger entered the city, inquired the way 
to the office, and introducing himself to the editor, 
kissed the ground before him, and acquainted him 
with the approach of his brother’s sub-editor. On 
this the editor ordered all his staff, with the proof- 
readers and publishers, to go forth a day’s journey to 
meet him, and they did so. And when they met 
him, they welcomed him and walked by his stirrups 
till they returned into the city. The messenger from 
Delhi then delivered his chief’s letter. The Samar- 
cand editor took it, read it, and understood its con- 
tents. w But,” said he to the messenger, “ I will not 
go till I have entertained thee three days.” He there- 
fore lodged him in a palace befitting his rank, accom- 
modated all his suite in tents, and appointed all things 


64 


ALIF-LAILA. 


requisite in food and drink, and for three days they 
feasted. His New-Year’s number was just printed, 
and having got that off his hands, on the fourth day 
he equipped himself for the journey, and collected 
presents suitable to his brother’s dignity. 

Having completed these preparations, he left the 
charge of the magazine with his chief of staff, and set 
out for his visit to his brother. As is the custom in 
the East, the caravan encamped a mile from the city 
to make sure that nothing was forgotten. It occurred 
to the Samarcand brother, after his evening meal, 
that it would be well to take with him an early copy 
of the New-Year’s number in advance to his brother, 
as they were not yet delivered to the trade. He 
mounted his horse, therefore, and rode back to the 
city, and to save himself from going to the office, he 
stopped near the gates, at the house of one of his 
chief contributors — a young lady of great promise, 
whose reputation had been manufactured, indeed, by 
the “ King of the Age ” — to ask her, for the “ early 
copy ” which had been sent to her because she had 
some verses in it. 

What did he see as he entered the house but that 
this false woman was giving a sealed letter to a negro 
slave. He seized it, he tore it open, and found that 
it was a copy of verses which she had written and 
addressed to the “ Fountain of Light,” which was the 
rival magazine in Samarcand. On beholding this, 
the world became black before his eyes. He said to 
himself, “ If this happens when I have not departed 
from the city, what will not this vile woman do while 


ALIF-LAILA. 


65 


1 am sojourning with my brother ? ” He then drew his 
cimeter and cut off her head, as she fell at his knees 
for pardon. He took from her table the early copy 
of the “ King of the Age,” gave orders for departure, 
and journeyed to the city of Delhi. 

As they approached Delhi, the “ Friend of the 
City,” or the editor of that journal, came out to meet 
them, and welcomed his brother with the utmost de- 
light. He then ordered that the city should be dec- 
orated for the occasion. But the mind of his brother 
was distracted by reflections upon the conduct of his 
favorite contributor. Excessive grief took possession 
of him, and his countenance became sallow and his 
frame emaciated. His brother observed these symp- 
toms of a mind ill at ease, and asked him the cause. 
“0 my brother,” he replied, “ I have an inward 
wound ” ; but he explained not to him the cause. 
His host then proposed a great press excursion on 
the Jumna, which he hoped might cheer his brother’s 
mind. But after all the preparations had been 
made, he was destined to suffer disappointment, his 
brother being so ill that the party proceeded without 
him. 

After they had gone, the poor sufferer from Samar- 
cand sat in his beautiful apartment in his brother’s 
palace, and to divert his mind, looked out into the 
garden. Scarcely was the excursion party gone, when 
a gay, laughing party of young men and women came 
into the garden, whom he recognized at once as being 
the contributors to his brother’s magazine, all of 
whom had been introduced to him at a collation the 


66 


ALIF-LAILA. 


day before. He was interested to see their proceed- 
ings. They entertained themselves in the garden; 
and the favorite contributor of all, a lady celebrated 
through India for her short stories, sat down by a 
fountain, clapped her hands, and cried, “ Masoud ! 
Masoud!” How Masoud was the editor of the 
"Pearl of Wit,” which was an upstart magazine, the 
hated rival of the “ Friend of the City.” In a mo- 
ment he came in, led by two mamelukes, who made 
prostrations before him ; and he bowed to the chief 
contributor, and sat at her feet. Then she drew from 
her pocket a little roll of vellum, and read to him and 
to all the others a short story of only six thousand 
words. And all the contributors applauded, some 
from sympathy and some to conceal their jealousy. 
But Masoud applauded most of all, and took the roll, 
and hung around her neck a necklace of diamonds. 
Then all the other contributors read articles in turn ; 
and Masoud took an article from each, and to each 
he gave either a purse of gold or a bracelet or a dia- 
mond, according to the reputation before the public 
of each contributor. How all these reputations had 
been made by the advertising clerk of the "Friend of 
the City.” 

When, therefore, the Samarcand editor saw from 
his window these shameless proceedings, his heart 
warmed gladly within him. " By Allah ! ” he ex- 
claimed, "my affliction is lighter than this afflic- 
tion!” His grief was soothed, and he no longer 
abstained from food and drink. 

And so it fell out that when, after five days, liisf 


ALIF-LAILA. 


67 


brother returned from the excursion, he was delighted 
to find that his brother guest was cheerful and well. 
His face had recovered its color, and he ate with ap- 
petite. “O my brother,” he cried, “how is this 
change? Acquaint me with thy condition.” Then 
his brother took him on one side, away from the staff, 
from the mamelukes and the publishers, and told him 
all. The Delhi editor could not believe the tale. 
But the next day he made as if he w^ould go on an 
excursion with the Board of Trade; and no sooner 
had the party left the city than he returned to his 
palace in disguise, and then, looking from the window 
as his brother had done, he saw a like sight: the 
contributors were all reading their articles, and 
selling them to Masoud and other editors of rival 
magazines. 

As soon as the editor saw this, he wrote a note to 
the chief contributor, and asked her to call at the 
office the next day. So soon as she entered, he 
charged her with her guilt ; and before the miserable 
creature could reply, he drew his cimeter and cut off 
her head. He then sent shorter notes to the lesser 
contributors ; and as each one entered the office, he 
explained briefly that he knew all, and, with his own 
hand, beheaded him. He then ordered the porters 
and janitors to throw the heads and bodies into the 
Jumna, and, with his brother’s assistance, he called 
in a new circle of new contributors, and made up the 
next number of the “Friend of the City” from their 
poems and articles. The director of advertisements 
and of press criticisms manufactured reputations for 


68 


ALIF-LAILA. 


them all, and the number was pronounced the most 
brilliant number of the “ Friend of the City ” which 
had ever been published. 

' Then the editor sent advance copies to each of 
these contributors, and asked them to call at the 
office the next morning. As each one called, the 
editor drew his cimeter and cut off the contributor’s 
head. He then called the porters and janitors, and 
bade them throw the carcasses and heads into the 
Jumna, and proceeded to make up the next number. 
And thus he did for three years. 

As the third year passed, however, the assistant 
editors began to observe that there was a certain diffi- 
culty in collecting poems and articles. Hay, it was 
even whispered that in the publication office they 
feared that the magazine was losing popularity. The 
rumors from the publication office were not often per- 
mitted to exhale in the editorial rooms. But still 
there was a suspicion that from the homes of the au- 
thors, who had been cut short so summarily, there 
was going out a sort of public opinion unfavorable to 
the renewal of subscriptions. As for authors, for 
some time they presented themselves freely. Each 
poet and each story-writer was quite sure that her 
communication was so much better than anything 
which had ever been written before that they all 
moved up to the fatal edge of publication with seren- 
ity, each quite sure that for herself the rule would be 
reversed, and each quite sure that the others deserved 
decapitation. But, as has been said, after three years 
the steady supply of articles was a little checked, per- 


ALIF-LAILA. 


69 


haps because a rumor was put in circulation by the 
conductors of the “ Pearl of Wit ” that the editor of 
the “ Friend of the City ” was crazy, and could not if 
he would, and would not if he could, tell a bad article 
from a good one. 

All these rumors and contingencies made the posi- 
tion of the sub-editor very uncomfortable as the third 
year drew to a close. He had to make up each num- 
ber all the same, and he had to direct the chief of the 
advertisements how to make the reputations of the 
authors. But really the authors were so short-lived 
now that the reputations were scarcely worth the 
making. 

Of this remarkable man the name unfortunately is 
lost. But, happily for literature and for posterity, he 
had two remarkable daughters, of whom the eldest 
has won an extraordinary reputation in the East, 
where she stands, indeed, at the very head of litera- 
ture. At the period with which this history deals 
she was young and beautiful. She had a courage 
above her sex, remarkable penetration, and genius 
unbounded. She had read everything, and her mem- 
ory was so wonderful that of all she had read she for- 
got nothing. She had studied history, philosophy, 
medicine, and the arts, and her verses were acknowl- 
edged to be better than those of the most distin- 
guished poets of her time. As has been said, her 
beauty was ravishing, and her amiability and her 
virtue rivalled her wit, her memory, her prudence, 
her accomplishments, and her personal loveliness. 

One day, when the sub-editor had white papei 


70 


ALIF-LAILA. 


before him, wondering how he should make up the 
“ schedule ” for his next number, this lovely girl came 
to him and said, “ Papa, grant me a boon ! ” and she 
kissed him. 

And he said, “ A thousand, my darling.” 

“ Though they should cost you the half of your 
kingdom, papa ? ” 

“ Though they should cost me the whole, my dar- 
ling,” said the fond father rashly. 

The girl clapped her hands and cried, “ Victory ! 
victory ! Papa, I want to write the first article for 
the next number of the ‘ Friend of the City.’ ” 

Oh, how agonized was her poor father ! How 
he begged her to release him from his fatal prom- 
ise ! but in vain. The girl was determined. She 
had her father’s word, and she would not let 
him go. 

“ Dear child,” he said, “ have you lost your senses ? 
You know that the chief cuts off the head of each 
contributor as soon as she has received the advanced 
copy of the magazine. Do you really ask me to offer 
you to the knife ? ” 

“ Yes, papa,” said the brave girl ; “ I know all the 
danger that I run, and it does not deter me. If I die, 
my death will be glorious. If I live, I save my 
country.” 

And at last the wretched father, driven to a partial 
consent by his daughter’s firmness, went to the editor- 
in-chief with the schedule of the number for his ap- 
proval, and showed to him that the first article on the 
fatal list, namely, 


ALIF-LAILA. 


71 


was 


“THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT,” 
“by scheherezade.” 


The editor knew the name full well, and he knew that 
the author was the sub-editor’s daughter. 

“ Dog,” said he, “ do you suppose that because I am 
fond of you and use you, I shall spare your cursed 
house more than any other house in Delhi ? ” 

The poor sub-editor, all in tears, said that he had 
no such hope. 

“Be not deceived,” said the editor. “When you 
bring to me your daughter Scheherezade’s article, you 
take her life with your own hands.” 

“Sir,” said the sub-editor, “I hear and I obey. 
My heart will break, but I shall obey you. Nature 
will murmur, but I know my place, and you 
will see that the proofs are well read and that my 
hands do not flinch.” The editor accepted his 
promise, and bade him bring the article when he 
pleased. 

Quite in time for the first or illustrated form, the 
sub-editor brought in the article, with a series of 
spirited illustrations, drawn on the block by' Dinar- 
zade, the sister of the virgin martyr Scheherezade. 
This celebrated article has never been fully printed in 
Western journals till now, although it has attained 
great celebrity all over the world, and has often been 
printed in abridged forms. The following is a more 
complete and correct version of it than we have found 
elsewhere : — 


72 


ALIF-LAILA. 


THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT. 

Once upon a time there was a rich merchant, won- 
derfully successful in his dealings, who had great store 
of goods of all sorts, of money also, and of women, 
children, and all sorts of slaves, as well as of houses, 
warehouses, and lands. And he had this wealth not 
only at home, but in all the countries of the world. 
He had to make journeys sometimes, so that he might 
see his factors and correspondents face to face. And 
once, when he was obliged to go and collect some 
money, he took his scrip or travel-bag, and packed in 
it some biscuit and some dates of Mecca for provision 
for the journey, because he would have in some places 
to pass over deserts. And so he mounted his horse 
and set out upon his journey. God gave him good 
success in his travelling. He came prosperously to 
the place he sought, he finished his business pros- 
perously, and prosperously he set out upon his 
return. 

After he had travelled three days toward home, the 
fourth day was very hot. And the merchant was so 
much distressed by the heat that he turned aside into 
a garden by the wayside to rest himself under the 
shade of some trees he saw there. He made his rest- 
ing place under the shade of a large nut-tree, he fas- 
tened his horse so that he could not run, and then 
opening his scrip, he took out one or two biscuits and 
a few dates to make a meal. He ate the biscuits and 
the dates, and threw the date-stones right and left 
upon the ground. Then, having satisfied himself with 


ALIF-LAILA. 


73 


his frugal repast, he stood up and washed himself, and 
then knelt down and said his prayers. 

He had not finished his prayers, but was still .upon 
his knees, when he saw before him an immense genie, 
so large that while his feet were on the ground, his 
head was in the clouds, and so old that he was white 
with age. He held in his hand a long drawn sword, 
and before the merchant could move, the genie cried 
out to him, — 

“ Stand up, that I may* kill you with this sword, as 
you have killed my son ! ” 

When the merchant heard these words of horror he 
was terrified by them as much as he had been at the 
sight of the monster ; but in the midst of his terror he 
stammered out, “ 0 my lord, what is my crime ? why 
do you kill me ? ” 

Then the genie replied again, “ I will kill you, as 
you have killed my son.” 

Then' the merchant said, “ Who has killed your 
son?” 

And the genie answered, “ You.” 

“0 my lord,” said the poor merchant, “I never 
saw your son, and I do not know who he is.” 

But the genie said, “You have killed him.” 

Then the merchant said, “ My lord, by the living 
Allah, I .have not killed him. How and where and 
when did I kill him ? ” 

The genie answered him, “ Did you not lie down 
when you came into the garden ? Did you not take 
dates out of your travel-bag, did you not eat the dates, 
and did you not throw the stones about, some on the 
left side and some on the right ? ” 


74 


ALIF-LAILA. 


“It is true, my lord,” said the merchant; “I did as 
you say.” 

“Very well,” said the genie, “and so you killed my 
son ; for my son was passing by just then, and as you 
threw the date-stones, one of them struck him and 
killed him. Does not the law say, * Whoso killeth 
another, shall he killed in turn ’ ? ” 

“Verily, this is the law,” said the merchant; “but 
indeed, indeed, my lord, I did not kill your son ; or, if 
I killed him, I call upon Allah to witness, without 
Whom is no might and no wisdom, that I did it un- 
wittingly. Forgive me, my lord, oh, forgive me if I 
have done this thing ! ” 

“ No,” said the genie ; “ surely you must die.” 

So saying, he seized the merchant and threw him 
upon the ground. Then he lifted his great sword into 
the air again and held it ready to strike. The poor 
merchant thought of his home and family, of his wives 
and his little ones. He thought he had not a moment 
more to live, and he shed such floods of tears that his 
clothes were wet with the moisture. 

He cried again, “ There is no power nor might but 
with the infinite Allah alone ! ” and then he repeated 
the following verses : — 


“ Time knows two days : 
Of one the face is bright and clear ; 
Of one the face is dark and drear. 

“ Life has two sides : 

One is as warm and glad as light ; 
One is as cold and black as night. 


ALIF-LAILA. 


75 


“ Time fooled with me : 

His flattering fingers soothed with magic spell, 

Just while his lying kiss was luring me to hell. 

“Who sneers at me ? 

Are not the trees that feel the tempest’s blow 
The stately trees of pride that highest grow ? 

“ Come sail with me : 

See floating corpses on the topmost waves ; 

The precious pearls are hid in secret caves. 

“ See the eclipse ! 

A thousand stars unquenched forever blaze ; 

But sun and moon must hide their brighter rays. 

“ I looked for fruit : 

On branches green and fresh no fruit I found ; 

I plucked the fruit from branches sere and browned. 

“ Night smiled on me ! 

Because I saw the diamonds in the sky, 

Poor fool ! I had forgot that death was nigh.” 


When the merchant had finished these verses, and 
had wept to his heart’s content, the genie, who had 
waited through it all, said, “ It is enough ; now I 
must kill you.” 

“ What ! ” said the merchant, “ will nothing change 
you?” 

“ Nothing,” said the genie. “ You must die.” 

TO BE CONTINUED. 

These last words were emblazoned in a beautiful 
scroll of Dinarzade’s most perfect designing. 


76 


ALIF-LAILA. 


The editor of the “Friend of the City” was not ac- 
customed, himself, to read manuscripts, proofs, or 
revises, unless the articles were his own. He first 
saw the articles of the sub-editor and contributors in 
plate-proof. When the plate-proofs of this number 
were brought to him he began at once on the story of 
the merchant. He read it with unaffected, not to say 
unwonted, interest. When he turned the last page, 
he said to himself, “ However will she wind it up in 
so few lines ? ” And when he came to the master- 
piece of Scheherezade’s success and of Dinarzade’s art, 
he laid down the sheets with a mingled feeling not 
easily described. His cruelty was foiled. But of that 
he thought little. His curiosity was piqued. A jaded 
editor of twenty-three years’ experience was curious 
for a denouement. But of this he thought little. For 
not one moment did he think of taking the author’s 
blood. He saw too clearly the future of the magazine. 
In short, every other emotion sank within him before 
the profound awe which overwhelmed his being. The 
editor looked down the ages. He saw that his maga- 
zine might last forever. For in that series of plate- 
proofs the Serial was born. 

From that moment the position of the lovely Sche- 
herezade and her accomplished sister Dinarzade on 
that magazine was secure. That single serial ran 
twenty-seven years, through one thousand and one 
numbers, and was known through the East as “ Alif- 
Laila.” Long before it ended, other serials had been 
begun, and no citizen of Delhi or the neighborhood 
ever subscribed for the “ Friend of the City ” but he 


ALIF-LAILA. 


77 


continued his subscription for generation after gener- 
ation. 

The tales of Sclieherezade have been collected, as is 
well known, in endless editions, and translated into 
all languages. The languages of the East are so little 
understood that the names of the magazines have in 
time been transferred to the two editors. The “ Eriend 
of the City ” in Arabic is “ Shahriar,” and that name 
in varied spelling is generally given to the editor of 
that print. His brother, by a similar oversight, is 
usually called “ Shahzeban,” which word means the 
“ King of the Age.” 

But these names are forgotten, as they should be. 
The name which is remembered is that of the lovely 
and virtuous Scheherezade, the savior of her country, 
who, to her other titles to the gratitude of men, adds 
this, — that she invented the Serial. 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


'DRESIDENT MADISON was fond of telling the 
*■- story of a visit made to him by one of his sup- 
porters. After due introductory discussion of the 
weather and the state of parties, the voter explained 
to the President that he had called upon him to ask 
for the office of Chief Justice of the United States. 

Mr. Madison was a little surprised ; but, with that 
ready tact which he had brought from his diplomatic 
experience, he concealed his astonishment. He took 
down the volume which contained the Constitution of 
the United States, and explained to this Mr. Swear- 
ingin — if that were his name — that the judges held 
office on the tenure of good behavior, and that Judge 
Marshall, then the ornament of the bench, could not 
be removed to make place for him. 

Mr. Swearingin received the announcement quietly ; 
and, after a moment, said he thought he should like 
to be Secretary of State. 

The President said that that was undoubtedly a 
place where a man could do good service to the 
country ; but that Monroe, like Mr. Swearingin and 
himself, was a Virginian; and he did not like to 
remove him. 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 79 

“Then,” said Mr. Swearingin, “I will be Secre- 
tary of the Treasury.” 

Unfortunately, the President said, the present in- 
cumbent was a Pennsylvanian : it was necessary to 
conciliate Pennsylvania; and he could not remove 
him. 

"Then,” said Mr. Swearingin, "I think I will go 
abroad. I should like to go to Prance.” 

"Do you speak French?” asked the President 
kindly. 

“ No, no ; I speak nothing but Old Dominion Eng- 
lish, — good enough for me, Mr. President.” 

“ Yes, yes ; and for me. But I don’t think it will 
do to send you to the Mounseers, unless you can 
speak their language.” 

“ Then I ’ll go to England.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Swearingin, that will never do ! King 
George might remember how often your father 
snapped his rifle at Lord Cornwallis.” 

So Europe was exhausted. And Mr. Swearingin 
fell back on one and another collectorship, naval 
office, district-attorneyship ; but for each application, 
the astute President had his reply. 

“ I think, then, Mr. President, I will be postmaster 
at our office at home.” 

Mr. Madison had forgotten where that was ; but, 
learning that it was at Slate Creek, Four Corners, 
Botetourt County, Virginia, he sent for the register. 
Alas ! it proved that the office was in the hands of 
one of Morgan’s veterans. Impossible to remove 
him ! 


80 


A CIVIL SERVANT . 


“ Truly, Mr. Madison,” said Mr. Swearingin, “ I am 
obliged to you for your attention to my case. I see 
the difficulties that surround you. Now, seeing you 
cannot give me the chief justice’s place, nor Mr. Mon- 
roe’s, nor the Treasury, nor any of those others, don’t 
you think you could give me a pair of old leather 
breeches ? ” 

Mr. Madison thought he could, — did better ; gave 
him an order on his tailor for the breeches ; and Mr. 
Swearingin went happily on his way. 

I have changed the name in this story, but tell it 
much as Mr. Madison told it. Something of that kind 
has happened every day in Washington, from 1800 
to 1880. And it is of the career of one of these very 
civil servants of the state, who are so easily pleased 
if only you give them something which they have 
never earned, that I now am writing. I am by no 
means sure that our hero is not the grandson of the 
very man whom, by a pair of leather breeches, James 
Madison made happy. 

The first epoch of his life is the great success, 
as his young friends thought it, when, before he 
was of age, he received an appointment as clerk 
in the War Department in Washington. It was 
then that he entered the “ Civil Service,” and be- 
came a “ civil servant ” of the United States. Why 
was he appointed? Why? Because there was 
nothing else for him to do. He had grown up shift- 
lessly, the oldest son ’of a widow, who had not a firm 
hand enough to keep him at school. He threw his 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


81 


Latin Grammar into the fire the day it was bought 
for him, and refused to go to college. One of his 
uncles offered him a farm at the West ; but he did 
not choose to be a farmer : he said he thought he 
would rather be a gentleman. The same prejudice 
interfered with his being apprenticed to learn the 
printer’s trade or the painter’s or the carriage-build- 
er’s, or any of the other methods by which hand- 
laborers subdue the world ; so an effort had been 
made, with a good deal of solicitation to back it, to 
put him into a wholesale importing house. But it 
turned out, the first day, that his figures were so 
dubious that no one could tell by his memoranda 
whether he had counted two hundred and fifteen 
bales of gunny cloth or 2,015. And when, on the 
second day, he gave to a teamster an order for two 
bundles of pine kindlings, which was so written and 
spelled that the next day one hundred bundles of 
pine shingles were found encumbering the stairway 
of the warehouse, and when this blunder was traced 
home to Master John’s handwriting, he was notified 
that the firm of Picul, Sapan, & Compan}^ had no 
further need for his services. Then his much-endur- 
ing uncles, by much letter-writing and vigilant 
attendance at many congressional district conven- 
tions, got him nominated by their member of Con- 
gress to a cadetship at West Point. This gentleman 
w T as called their member because they had quoad hoc- 
bought him by such services. But when Master 
John presented himself for examination at West- 
Point, he was so uncertain whether eleven times 


82 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


eleven were a hundred and seven, or whether it were 
not a hundred and seventeen, that he was passed by, 
and a little Irish boy, named Phil Sheridan, who had 
no uncles that were ever heard of, was taken in his 
place. How much the country lost in that substitu- 
tion can never be told. After a similar experience as 
to a midshipman’s berth, Master John had been left 
to follow up his own views in the training for a 
gentleman. Sometimes, in terrible pinch for pocket- 
money, he would shovel sidewalks for the neighbors. 
He was always ready, in summer, to burn a good 
deal of powder in shooting beach-birds ; but he had 
attained the age of twenty without the knowledge of 
any handicraft, mystery, or profession except that of 
catching flounders from the wharves of the seaport 
village where he lived. 

It was, therefore, as I have said, welcomed as a spe- 
cial providence, almost, that a benignant government, 
at the demand of the uncles aforesaid, w'as able to give 
to Mr. John Sapp a desk in the War Department. 

The duties of this post he was told, and he found, 
were such as would “ explain themselves ” to him. 
The first duty was to come in at nine, and the second 
was to leave at three. Mr. Sapp soon learned the 
second duty very well, and even assisted in arrange- 
ments by which, at noon every day, the in-door clock 
of the department was crowded forward ten minutes, 
so as to make duty number two the easier. As to 
the first duty, he was never perfect. But, as he justly 
said,- it made no sort of difference whether he were 
tiiere early or late. The truth is, that it was an 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


83 


economy to him to come late; because he then 
needed fewer cigars to go through the morning. After 
he did arrive, he had the “National Intelligencer” to 
read, and the “ Madisonian,” and the “ Globe ” ; he 
had such letters to acknowledge as had been sent 
down open to his room ; and he had to get rid of the 
time till three o’clock, as amended, came. 

All this was very comfortable for many years, 
while it lasted. It might have lasted till now, but 
for a little accident. It happened, one day, that a 
woman with a black veil came into the room where 
Mr. Sapp was reading, with his feet on the mantel- 
piece, and handed him a letter. “ Take a seat,” said 
he ; “I am engaged just now.” So the widow took a 
seat, while Mr. Sapp finished an account of a prize 
fight in the “Madisonian.” He then left her, and 
went upstairs to settle his bets on this fight with 
one of the gentlemen there ; and the widow waited 
an hour. Then he came back ; and she asked him if 
he would look at her letter. He looked at it, and 
told her she had come to tfye wrong office, and wrote 
a memorandum, which directed her to go to the head- 
quarters of the army. The poor woman said she had 
been there, and they had sent her to him. By this 
continued importunity she wearied Mr. Sapp; and 
he said, with some warmth, that he would he damned 
if he would be bullied by her or by anybody ; that he 
knew his business, if at the head-quarters they did 
not know theirs, and that she had better leave the 
office, and that very quickly, too. And so Mr. Sapp 
relapsed to his cigar. 


84 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


Now it happened that this lady was the widow of 
a major-general, and the sister of another who was 
acting as assistant-adjutant on the general staff. She 
was attending to a mere piece of detail, drawing the 
money due to her son, who had died in service. It 
was merely for her own convenience that she had 
stopped at the department herself ; and, in an hour 
more, she had reported at head-quarters, as bidden by 
Mr. Sapp. 

In twenty-four hours more, therefore, Mr. John 
Sapp had his arrears of pay paid up to him, was 
dismissed from the service of the government, and 
Mr. Dick Nave was appointed to the vacant desk. 
This gentleman wa;s the next on the list ; that was 
the reason he was appointed. 

Mr. John Sapp was free of the world. 

But, from that moment, Mr. Sapp had found his 
profession. He was, as you have seen from what he 
did and said to the widow, what is called a “ civil 
servant.” He had seen the color of Uncle Sam’s 
money. It was paid in coin in those days : and Mr. 
Sapp knew how regular were the quarter days, and 
how bright the quarters and the halves. If he were 
prejudiced before against the meaner professions, in 
which one receives his pay from his fellow-men, how 
much more was he prejudiced against them now, 
when he had learned how well Uncle Sam pays, even 
if he pays but little, and how easy it had been for 
him, till this misfortune came, to do even less than 
he was paid for. A civil servant had Mr. John Sapp 
begun in life ; and a civil servant he would remain. 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


85 


So he returned home. But he did not return before 
two or three "own correspondents” had announced 
in the "Buncombe True Eagle ” and the “ Bobadil True 
Elag ” that our distinguished fellow-citizen, Mr. John 
Sapp, having pressed a series of reforms in the War 
Department which cut off the perquisites of some of 
the epaulette wearers who were parading on Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue, had been hunted down by them with 
relentless hostility, and at last had been driven from 
the post which he had so bravely maintained. The 
“ Eagle ” intimated that the least sop thrown to these 
hungry beagles by Mr. Sapp would have silenced 
their howl. But he was not the man to bribe. He 
preferred to go down with his colors flying, although 
the yellow flag of corruption should be flaunted in 
the hot sirocco of political and party tergiversation ; 
and, with this talisman of integrity wrapped about 
his form, he would present himself in his native 
town for the verdict of the people whose rights he 
had maintained. In this cloud of mixed metaphor, 
Mr. Sapp returned to Shirk Corners, and took up 
his quarters at the village hotel. 

On consultation with his friends, Mr. Sapp offered 
himself .as candidate for the legislature, — the great 
mistake of his life, as he afterwards declared. Uncle 
Sam, he said, required little, if he paid little ; paid 
well what he paid; and, if a man’s politics were 
right, asked no questions. But when a man offered 
himself for the legislature, there were a thousand 
questions; "and a feller did not understand; and 
then what could a feller do ? ” But this was after he 


86 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


had learned what was what. While he was learning, 
his friends advised him to he seen freely among the 
people, and to attach the young men to him, and to 
gain the respect of the solid men. So Mr. Sapp 
became a fine member of the Light Infantry, and 
paid the entrance fees. He joined the Silver Fountain 
Division of Sons of Temperance, and attended their 
meetings. He invited all gentlemen of respectability 
into the private office of the Shirk House, and treated 
to champagne and cigars. He took a half pew in 
the Methodist Church, and generally attended the 
occasional and evening services at the Church of 
the Disciples. He looked in at the editorial office 
of the “ Spy ” in the morning ; and if he got a good 
letter from Washington in the afternoon, he sent it 
to the editor of the “ Informer.” He joined the 
reading-club, and made himself agreeable to the 
ladies. He subscribed to the Orphans’ Home, so 
that he might win the suffrages of orphans. He 
held yarn for those who knit at the ladies’ sewing 
society, and spun yarns for those who would listen. 
He was faithful in his attendance at primary meet- 
ings. He sat through the speaking of the boys at 
the quarterly school exhibitions. He permitted him- 
self to be made a director of the Horse-Thief Asso- 
ciation, and when there was a fire, he worked at the 
brakes of the engines till he was spelled. These little 
occupations I mention only by way of illustration. 
He said himself that this set of duties was endless, 
and that anybody who knew what hard work a feller 
had before he could go to the legislature, would never 


A CIVIL SERVANT . 


87 


envy any man his seat. “ For his part, he was sure 
that a civil servant did more mean work than any 
nigger of them all.” 

If he is to be the standard, I am sure I agree with 
him. 

At last the time for nomination came, and Mr. 
Sapp was nominated hy the old Whig line, which 
was then in the majority in Buncombe County. Had 
the Democrats been in the majority, Mr. Sapp would 
have solicited their nomination. “ It ’s best to be 
on the winning side,” he said. In times of long 
peace, the army and the navy are generally unpopular ; 
and the impression that Mr. Sapp had been snubbed 
hy shoulder-strapped men was enough to bring him 
into favor. “We shall walk over the track,” said Mr. 
Hopkirk, his .principal backer ; and Mr. Facer, though 
not so confident, offered three to one in betting on him. 

But alas ! the Democrats named a candidate ; and 
some thorny come-outers named another: so there 
was no walking over the track. And, by the same 
ill luck which made our civil servant insult Mrs. 
Gen. Armitage, he happened to ask Deacon Whit- 
man, the Most Grand Worthy of the Sons of Tem- 
perance, to step into his room on a cold day and try 
some hot punch he had been brewing. Who could 
ever have thought that a jolly-looking old cove like 
that was a deacon ? The deacon published this 
invitation in the next “Water-Bucket.” He added 
some comments, which drew forth some dozen lies 
from Mr. Hopkirk the next day in the “ Spy.” “ The 
deacon’s letter lost us all the temperance vote ; and 


88 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


Mr. Hopkirk’s lost us all the liberal vote,” — so was 
the vote of the liquor houses and their coteries called. 
T-hen one day, at a conference meeting, Brother Sapp 
was asked pointedly if he believed in the objectivity 
of the atonement. “ How is a feller to know ? ” he 
said afterwards to Mr. Facer. And poor Mr. Sapp, 
not knowing, told the truth, and said that under 
certain circumstances he did, and other circum- 
stances he did not. He said this in such a way as 
to offend the class-leader, who was a man of courage, 
and in the habit of saying yes for yes, and no for no. 
After a dozen other such pieces of ill-luck as this, it 
is no wonder that John Throop, the Independent, 
stood at the head of the poll ; Beuben Gerry, the 
Democrat, came next, and John Sapp last of all. 
But he had all the liquor bills of his friends, all the 
printing of the canvass, and half of the bets upon it 
to pay. 

By this time, John was thrown back upon his 
uncles again. As for them, worthy men, they had 
written so many letters of introduction in his favor 
that they began to believe their own words, and 
regarded him as a much abused man, and themselves 
as worse abused than he. 

The earliest form of this letter which I have found 
is simply this : — 

Dear Sir, — I take the liberty to introduce to you my nephew, 
Mr. John Sapp, who will explain to you the object with which he 
calls. Kespectfully yours, 

Philemon Plaice, 

or Ailanthus Plaice, as the case might be . 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


89 


But after the uncles became indignant them- 
selves with the public’s dulness, and especially after 
they found they were paying John Sapp’s bills, 
the letters became eloquent enlargements on these 
themes. 

My Dear Friend, — The hearer, my nephew, Mr. John Sapp, 
is a young gentleman who has been very hardly treated in the public 
service. He calls to ask your advice and interest in an application 
he is making for — 

For whatever it might happen to be ; as, the post 
of superintendent of oil lamps ; 

Of chief marshal of the Kossuth procession ; 

Of county surveyor (duties done by proxy) ; 

Of assistant marshal for the census ; 

Of assistant assessor ; 

Of pilot commissioner ; 

Of librarian of the Archaeological Institute ; 

Of messenger in the State House ; 

Of head of the lamplighting bureau in the City 
Hall; 

Of ticket-seller at the Coliseum ; 

Of lecturer for the Free Trade League ; 

Of trustee of the Protectionist Fund; 

Of secretary to the Board of Health ; 

’ Of auditor of the Alabama claims ; 

Of secretary to the commissioners at Vienna ; 

Of -clerk to the inspectors of Ward 2 ; 

Or whatever other function might prove to need 
a functionary. Indeed, the Messrs. Plaice soon per- 
suaded themselves that he had special fitness,, in turn, 
for any and all posts which fell vacant : — 


90 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


For inspector of fish, because his father went on 
a mackerel voyage when he was a boy. 

• For toll-keeper of the Potomac bridge, because 
his mother was of a misanthropic turn of mind. 

For firewarden, because he was blown up with 
gunpowder when he was a child. And with each 
rebuff in Mr. John Sapp’s line of applications, his 
uncles were the more indignant for the ingratitude 
of the world. 

So was Mr. Sapp ; hut none the less did he push 
his traverses towards the works of what . he called 
the common enemy. 

He was at one time urging his claims to be em- 
ployed inspector of Orange Peel, as it was found on 
sidewalks, — a post for which he was specially fitted, 
because a hoy with whom he went to school was 
our consul at Fayal. Some one who met him said, 
very unkindly, that John Sapp’s life seemed to he a 
very easy one ; and the phrase came to John’s ears. 
“ Easy ? ” said he. “ I should like to know what is 
hard. This fellow thinks all you have to do is to 
ask to he appointed Inspector of Orange Peel, and 
then to begin to draw the salary. Shows what he 
£nows of our business. 

“How see; this inspector is appointed by the 
county commissioners. Have to find out who they 
are. Make no mistake. Get the names right first, 
— all the letters right. William Claflin and Tennie 
Claflin’s husband not the same man, — very different 
men. Then find out their friends, — where they go 
to church, who ’s the minister, who ’s the doctor, what 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


91 


bank they ’re in, and so on. Then find out who knows 
the friends. See ? 

“Then begin. Speak first to John Jones at the 
barber’s or post-office quite accidentally. Get John 
J ones to give you letter — see ? — to introduce you 
to David Dodder. See ? Simple letter, — general 
letter. ‘ Friend Mr. Sapp, — little matter of business.’ 
Then call on David Dodder — see? — -after dinner, 
when he ’s good-natured. Ask him to introduce you 
to William Belcher, — ‘ important matter of business, 
necessary for public benefit.’ See ? Then go to 
William Belcher, — best coat on, clean shirt, shaved 
on purpose, — and ask him for letter of introduction 
to county commissioners, — knows ’em all, — see ? — 
something like this : — 

“ ‘My dear Mr. Sheriff, — Will you present to the 
county commissioners my friend Mr. John Sapp, who 
is a candidate for the Inspection of Orange Peel ? I 
do not personally know Mr. Sapp, whose public ser- 
vice has been mostly at Washington ; but my friend, 
Mr. Dodder, on whose judgment I rely, &c., &c.’ 
See? 

“Now,” said Mr. Sapp, when he explained this, 
“ what man says it is easy to get those letters to- 
gether ? What man says I did not earn this inspect- 
orship by hard work ? And when a fellow’s got it, 
I ’ll be hanged if the Know-nothings did not come in 
before I had been in office a week, and before I had 
any chance to join them ; and I was turned out 
before I had inspected one orange ! ” 

Mr. Carlyle says that the hatter of the present 


92 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


day, instead of exerting himself to make good hats, 
exerts himself to write good advertisements of hats, 
or to make the largest hat that can be made of lath 
and plaster, to be carted round the streets of London 
upon wheels, bearing advertisements of his hat store. 
The evil is not a new one. The cat in iEsop told 
the fox that she had but one way to save her life, if 
the enemy should come. “ How sad ! ” said the fox. 
“ I have a hundred ; and I will explain them to you.” 
Just as he began to explain, the hounds dashed upon 
them. The cat ran up a tree, and was safe ; but the 
fox, at the end of his hundredth turn, was devoured. 
Mr. John Sapp was as badly off as the fox. He was 
fit for a hundred places, but he never could stay in 
one of them. Had he known how to do one thing, 
he could have done it his life long. 

For, when a crisis comes, or anything like a crisis, 
the world has a hopeless fashion of jamming its old 
stout felt hat over its ears, tying a stout scarf above 
it, and going out to battle in the storm, and forgets, 
in the fight, the lath-and-plaster hat which has dragged 
the street yesterday. It trusts a proved friend, though 
his felt be a little rough, and his braid a little frayed. 
And while Mr. John Sapp’s portfolio of recommen- 
dations grew larger and larger, and showed he was 
good for everything, from a post on the Board of Health 
round to the janitorship of the public library, the 
public, when it was on its mettle, had a brutal way 
of appointing what he called ‘‘new men,” who had 
made no application, or what he called “ old fogies,” 
who had been trained by experience to understand 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


93 


their duties. And it must be confessed that Mr. 
Sapp held back very modestly from the places which 
involved danger to-day, or which required preparation 
in years bygone. When the war came, he made no 
offer of service in the field, but was quite sure there 
must be some place as storekeeper that he should 
like. When Kansas was to be settled of a sudden, 
he did not think of emigrating ; but he thought there 
might be some place for him in the office that sent 
the emigrants. I happen to remember that forty-nine 
thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other men 
of his age thought much the same thing. Having, 
indeed, been educated for nothing in particular, Mr. 
Sapp was always on the front list of applicants 
for places where there was nothing in particular 
to do. 

I have had a great many such men to examine, 
sooner or later. If Mr. Sapp had come before me, 
sitting as county commissioner, or inspector of prisons, 
the question I would have put him first would have 
been, “ What can you do best in this world ? What 
do you think you are most good for ?. What do you 
like to do ? ” It is pathetic to see how disappointed 
men break down under that question. I once asked 
a foreign missionary what he would do if he had 
carte-blanche , — had a hundred thousand dollars to 
expend in the next year ? 

“I — I — I think, ah, ah — you had better ask the 
advisory board,” he said. 

There was nothing in particular that he wanted to 
do; and so he did nothing. I used to ask young 


94 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


men what they were reading, hut I do not now, un- 
less I am quite sure of them. So many men said, 
“ Oh, — really, you know, — the newspapers, you 
know, — and the magazines, you know, — ‘ Littell’s ’ 
and ‘ Old and New ’ and the ' Atlantic/ you know — 
must keep up with the times, you know.” I did not 
know any such thing. They read nothing in partic- 
ular, and practically read nothing at all. Now, the 
people, — who are, on the whole, wiser than we 
think, — when their moments of crisis come, sweep 
all such Jacks-of-all- trades by. They light on some 
one man, who has done some one thing well. He 
has made fish leap up the falls at Lowell into the 
Merrimack. He has .taught the waves to obey his 
bidding, and sheer off the shore at Chicago. He has 
administered a railroad, so that no widow weeps when 
she hears its name, no orphan curses the recklessness 
of its managers. The grateful people know such 
men. And when a crisis comes, that voice of the 
people, which is as the voice of God, says to such a 
man, — 

“ Thou hast been faithful in a few things : I will 
make thee ruler over many things. Thou hast been 
faithful in a very little. Have thou authority over 
ten cities ! ” 

But Mr. Sapp heard no such order to come up 
higher. The truth is, that, in three cases out of four, 
official life with us is not a good training for business 
in any other work. And Mr. Sapp’s office at the 
War Department had been one of those three cases. 
It had taught him to file letters, to note their con- 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


95 


tents in an alphabetical index, to refer them respect- 
fully to somebody else, to write back in an invariable 
form to the authors that they had been respectfully 
referred, and, once a week, to send a volume of let- 
ters to the binder. But this was all that it taught 
him. The consequence was that when he was ap- 
pointed to any function with any different duties, he 
functioned ill. 

Thus he was a poor librarian at /the Archaeological; 
and the directors voted not to have any librarian. 
They appointed a superintendent ; and Mr. Sapp was 
discharged. 

He lectured ill for the Free Trade League, so that 
the people stayed at home. How, as Lord Dundreary 
says, “ How can a feller lecture, if people will not 
listen ? ” 

He inspected orange peel ill, so that, whether the 
Know-nothings had come in or not, he would have 
gone out. In truth, he was, as I said, trained to do 
nothing in particular ; and the only place he was fit 
for, therefore, was some place where there was nothing 
in particular to do. 

In the English civil service there are many such 
places; but in that of America there are very 
few. 

The last time I saw Mr. Sapp, he was standing 
rather ruefully at the door of Dr. Chloral’s office. 
Dr. Chloral, you remember, is the celebrated dentist 
of that name, with the striking sign on Cambridge 
Street, where a gutta-perch mouth, propelled by Co- 
chituate, opens and shuts to slow music, as if it were 


96 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


listening to a lyceum lecture two-thirds done. For- 
tunately for me, Mr. Sapp did not see me. 

At that moment he was laying his lines for an 
inspectorship in the Custom House. He had no letters 
of introduction which he thought would move Judge 
Bussell, the collector. But he knew, or thought he 
knew, that Dr. Chloral and Judge Bussell were 
intimate; so he stood at Dr. Chloral’s street-door 
till some patient might come in whom Mr. Sapp 
could engage to introduce him to the dentist, who 
in his turn could then introduce him to the col- 
lector. 

An admirable plan! Well, many patients came, 
you may be sure. Ladies came in carriages with 
their children, from Chester Square. Students came 
in the Union cars from Cambridge. Laboring men 
came up from North Street. Later in the day, tooth- 
aching bankers came from State Street, and neuralgic 
aldermen from City Hall. But hour passed after hour ; 
and no man came whom Mr. Sapp could ask for an 
introduction to Dr. Chloral. Hour passed after hour. 
The clock struck three, when Mr. Sapp knew that 
office hours were over for that day. The hard- worked 
doctor, released at last, came running down to take 
his walk before dinner, when lo, one more patient on 
the stairway ! 

It was poor John Sapp. Failing other introduc- 
tion, he had, with the promptness of genius', invented 
a toothache. 

He met Dr. Chloral, and acted agony so well, that 
he compelled the doctor to return. 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


97 


“ But there ’s nothing the matter with that tooth, 
man ! It is sound for thirty years.” 

“ 0,” said Mr. Sapp, “ I wish I thought so ! ” 

“ Why, man, I wish it were in my head ! ” said the 
doctor. 

“ 0 ,” said Mr. Sapp, “ I wish it were ! ” 

“Well,” said Dr. Chloral, “if you say so, here 
goes ” ; and in a moment he pulled as honest a tooth 
as ever ground gristle or tendon. 

“ Now rinse your mouth here, sir ; here ’s a towel, 
sir; I’m rather late, sir”; and then, as Mr. Sapp 
loitered, — 

“ What else can I do for you ? ” . 

“ Could not you, — Dr. Chloral, — could not you 
write me a line of introduction to Mr. Collector Bus- 
sell at the Custom House ? ” 

“ And after all, do you think,” said Mr. Sapp, — 
“ after all, J udge Russell appointed a one-legged sol- 
dier, who had served in the war ; and I lost my tooth 
for nothing.” 

After this repulse, Mr. Sapp became low in his 
mind. His uncles were dead, — that is, his real uncles 
were ; and he carried to his other uncles most of his 
portable property for pawn. At last he got up a 
paper which many men signed — without reading it. 
They hoped, perhaps, it was a petition to the gov- 
ernor that he would give Mr. Sapp a place, holding 
for good behavior, in the state-prison. It was a 
recommendation to the benevolent to subscribe for 
his relief. With this paper he called, as it happened, 
on Mrs. Gen. Armitage, who was spending the sum- 
7 


98 


A CIVIL SERVANT . 


mer at the sea-shore at Shirk Corners. Mrs. Armitage 
was interested in the fate of the worn-out office- 
seeker. She gave him a chair, a piece of cake, and a 
glass of water, and made him tell his whole story. 
To her dismay, she found that she had been the 
arbiter of his fortunes. She had long since forgotten 
his rudeness, and he had never known her name. 
But Mrs. Armitage gave him five dollars ; and, think- 
ing that she had, perhaps, some influence still in 
Washington, wrote a confidential note to a very, very, 
very high authority, to know if there was really no 
place, with ever so little salary, — in which a man 
could just live, — which Mr. Sapp could have. “ Some 
place, you know,” said she, “ where there is nothing 
in particular to do, but where you just want a single 
man, who does not drink, and who, I believe, does 
not steal.” 

The answer, al&s ! was — as it always is — that 
nothing was vacant but the consulate at Fernando 
Po. The quarter’s fees there were never more than 
fifty-seven dollars. How much they would be in a 
year, no one knows ; for no consul has ever survived 
that climate more than four months. But it is 
thought that the fees may be larger now ; for no one 
has applied for the place since the last consul died, 
seven years ago. This is the only place in the gift 
of the government that no one has applied for. 

Mrs. Armitage showed this letter to Mr. John Sapp. 
“ Have you ever lived in a warm climate ? ” said she 
kindly. “ There can be no danger of rheumatism 
there.” 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


99 


!No, there could be no danger of rheumatism ; but, 
for all that, Mr. Sapp declined the offer. It did him 
good to decline it. He wrote a letter on square 
letter-paper, and sealed it with his father’s seal-ring. 
It was the first thing in life he had ever declined ! 

I think that seal touched them in Washington. 
They are hard-hearted, but sealing-wax — real red 
sealing-wax — touches them when rhetoric is power- 
less. 

I think so. Tor the next week came this letter, 
autograph from the very, very, very high author- 
ity : — 

Washington, April 1, 18— 

Dear Mrs. Armitage, — We must send at once, without noise, 
a trusty man to take possession of the Island of St. Lazarus, one of 
Aleutian group, west of Alaska, in the name of the United States. 
It will be some years before we establish a post there ; but mean- 
while the flag must be kept flying. Would your friend like 'this? 
There is a sealer’s hut there ; and he will have his passage free, full 
rations, and Stationery. I think he also has the franking privilege 
for all official correspondence. I will inquire at the post-office. He 
will be commissioned as Governor-General of the island ; but there 
are no inhabitants except the seals, unless he chooses to take his 
family with him. 

This was a long letter for the very high authority. 
“He forgets,” said Mrs. Armitage, “ that I told him 
that Mr. Sapp was a single man ! ” And from that 
time she bore that grudge against the very high 
authority which a woman always bears against a 
man who does not read her letters twice through. 

Mr. Sapp was delighted. He had been appointed 
confidentially to an office for which he had never 
applied. It was a secret office. No man knew of it. 


100 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


He accepted the appointment, for no bondsmen were 
required. He was distressed to find that no oath was 
to be taken. He went to Washington to receive his 
instructions, which was quite unnecessary. He drew 
on the navy yard at Charlestown for stationery, and 
he drew for a great deal. There was one large tin 
box filled with red tape, which was his especial glory. 

He was landed at St. Lazarus prosperously; and, 
with the assistance of a boat’s crew, they got the flag 
flying. They cleared out the sealer’s house. They 
carried up ten barrels of salt junk, twelve of salt 
pork, thirteen of potatoes, fourteen of flour, fifteen of 
sour-krout, and sixteen of white beans. These were 
the supplies Mr. John Sapp was to subsist on for a 
year. They carried up Tour reams of foolscap paper, 
ruled and margined, for his official reports to the War 
Department ; four of quarto letter-paper, for his re- 
ports to the Navy ; four of royal octavo, for his reports 
to the Smithsonian ; four of large congress note, for 
his reports to the Weather Bureau ; four of small 
congress note, for his reports to the Treasury; and 
four of gilt-edged note, with initials J. S., for his pri- 
vate correspondence. They carried up eleven pounds 
of red sealing-wax, the tin box of red tape they car- 
ried up ; and so they bade him good-by. The boat 
returned to the ship. Then it proved that his dog 
and cat and parrot and umbrella were still on board ; 
and the captain’s gig was sent with them. So Mr. 
Sapp was not left alone. 

Here was a place. It was a place with nothing 
particular to do ; and Mr. Sapp was left to do it. 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


101 


He kept no diary. Nothing, therefore, is known 
of his experience for the year, hut when, the next 
year, the store-ship landed his stores, the boatswain 
in charge ran up the beach, and met a grave man in 
seal-skins, who made a military salute. 

The boatswain saluted him, and was about to speak, 
when old Sealskin, as he afterwards called him, said, 
“ Have you passed quarantine L” 

“ Quarantine ? No, sir ! ” 

“ Take your boat round into the South Cove, and 
see the health officer, and bring me his permit.” 

The boatswain, from habit of obedience, obeyed, — • 
took the boat round in half an hour’s pulling. Health 
officer! There were some stupid seals who jumped 
off the rocks ; and that was all. 

The captain of the store-ship, meanwhile, had seen 
this manoeuvre with amazement, and sent a second boat 
ashore. With this boat, he sent his second officer. 
He also met the lonely Eobinson, and saluted. 

“ Have you passed quarantine ? ” 

" All right, my man,” said the friendly sailor ; and 
Sealskin turned, and walked with him to his hut. A 
moment moje, and the boatswain followed. He could 
find no health officer, he said. 

“ It must be past his office hours,” said Mr. Sapp 
gravely. “ They close at eleven there. You shall be 
examined to-morrow.” 

The boatswain stared at this postponement of quar- 
antine ; but then, on a word from his superior officer, 
he produced a bag of papers and letters for Mr. Sapp 
which he had been afraid to offer him before. 


102 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


“ They .will be respectfully fumigated and respect- 
fully referred,” said Mr. Sapp. 

And he hung them to the crane in the chimney. 

Then he lifted off a pot of bean-soup, and filled a 
bowl for each of the wondering men. He produced 
hard-tack from a closet, and whiskey and water. 
And then, still asking no question, he took down the 
smoky letters, and opened them slowly. 

But, to the men’s amazement, he did not read one. 

He folded the first with a steel letter file, two 
inches and a quarter wide, arid docketed it, — “ Re- 
ceived June 11. Respectfully referred to Next Fri- 
day, Esq., P. M.” 

When the boatswain heard of Mr. Friday, he 
thought it was surely Robinson Crusoe. 

But the next letter, unread, was filed and docketed, 
— “Respectfully referred to Next Saturday, Esq., 
A. M.” 

“ P. M. and A. M.,” cried the boatswain ; “ they 
have masters of arts here as well as postmasters.” 

“ Not at all,” said the governor severely ; “ A. M., 
— Ante-Meridiem ; P. M., — Post-Meridiem ” ; and, 
without reading the next letter, he filec^ it, and in- 
dorsed it, — “Respectfully referred to Next Sunday, 
Esq., M.” 

“ Young man,” said he, “ I shall examine and file 
this letter on Friday afternoon ; this one on Saturday 
morning; this on Sunday noon. Let all things be 
done regularly and in order.” 

The mate and boatswain were alarmed. They 
hastily finished their bean-soup and fled to the boat, 


A CIVIL SERVANT. 


103 


returning with six men, who rolled a barrel of junk 
up the well-kept gravel walk. 

“ Invoice ? ” said the governor. 

There was no invoice. 

“ Prepare an invoice.” 

And the meek boatswain obeyed. 

“ My man, take this to the inspector,” said Mr. 
Sapp to one of the crew, after he had indorsed it, 
— “ Respectfully referred to the Inspector-General.” 

The sailor was a. Portuguese, — understood no Eng- 
lish ; bobbed his head, and waited for light. 

Mr. Sapp led him to the door, and pointed to a 
bearded walrus, — who sat on a rock above the land- 
ing, — bidding him take the invoice to him, and land 
nothing more without his orders. 

Poor man ! — or happy man shall I call him ? He 
had what he sought for. He had a place with noth- 
ing to do, and faithfully he had done it, — so faithfully 
that, in that sad loyalty, the little fragment of his 
untrained wits gave way. 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


A TROUBADOUR’S TALE. 

— * — 

[I have introduced tlie beginning of this romance in my little 
story called “ In His Name.” In the form in which the reader sees 
it, it belongs to the twelfth century, in which the action of that 
story is laid. The French critics think they have found traces of 
the narrative at a time even earlier. Some of the English critics 
have spoken of the story with more harshness than I think it de- 
serves. Aucassin’s bitter contrast of the hell and heaven of which 
he has been taught is certainly in character ; and the reader must 
give no more weight to it than it deserves.] 


I. 

Who will listen yet again 
To the old and jovial strain, — 

The old tale of love that ’s always new ? 
She ’s a girl that ’s fair as May ; 

He ’s a boy as fresh as day ; 

And the story is as gay as it is true. 


II. 

Who will hear the pretty tale 
Of my thrush and nightingale, — 

Of the dangers and the sorrows that they met ? 
How he fought without a fear, 

For his charming little dear, — 

Aucassin and his loving Nicolette ? 


NICOLETTE AND A UCASSIN. 


105 


hi. 

For, my lords, I tell you true 
That you never saw or knew, 

Man or woman so ugly or so gray, 

Who would not all day long, 

Sit and listen to the song 
And the story that 1 tell you here to-day. 

Now you must know, my lords and my ladies, that 
the Count Bougars de Yalence chose to make war 
with the Count Garin de Beaucaire. And the war 
was so cruel, that the count never let one day go by, 
but that he came thundering at the walls and harriers 
of the town, with a hundred knights, and with ten 
thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horseback, who 
burned all the houses, and stole all the sheep, and 
killed all the people that they could. 

Now the Count Garin de Beaucaire was very old, 
and was sadly broken with years. He had used his 
time very ill, had the Count de Beaucaire. And the 
old wretch had no heir, either son or daughter, except 
one boy, whose name was 

AUCASSIN. 

Aucassin was gentle and handsome. He was tall 
and well made. His legs were good, and his feet 
were good; his body was good, and his arms were 
good. His hair was blonde, a little curly. His eyes 
were like gray fur, for they were near silver, and near 
blue, and they laughed when you looked at them- 
His nose was high and well placed. His face was 
clear and winning. Yes, and he had everything 


106 NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 

charming, and nothing bad about him. But this 
young man was so wholly conquered by love (who 
conquers everybody), that he would not occupy him- 
self in any other thing. He would not be a knight ; 
he would not take arms ; he would not go to the 
tourneys ; he would not do any of the things he ought 
to do. 

His father was very much troubled by this, and he 
said to him one morning, — 

“ My son, take your arms, mount your horse, defend 
your country, protect your people. If they only see 
you in the midst of them, this will give them more 
courage; they will fight all the better for their lives 
and their homes, for your land and mine.” 

“Father,” said Aucassin, “why do you say this to 
me ? 

“ May God never hear my prayers, if I ever mount 
horse, or go to tourney or to battle, before you have 
yourself given to me my darling Nicolette, — my 
sweetheart whom I love so dearly.” 

“ My son,” said the father to him, “ this cannot be. 

“ Give up forever your dreams of this captive girl, 
whom the Saracens brought from some strange land, 
and sold to the viscount here. 

“ He trained her ; he baptized her ; she is his god- 
child. 

“Some day he will give her to some brave fellow 
who will have to gain his bread by his sword. 

“ But you, my son, when the time comes that you 
wish to take a wife, I will give you some king’s 
daughter, or at least the daughter of a count. 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


107 


“There is not in all France a man so rich that you 
may not marry his daughter, if you choose.” 

So said the old man. But Aucassin replied, — 

“ Alas, my father ! there is not in this world the 
principality which would not he honored, if my 
darling Nicolette, my sweetest, went to live there. 

“ If she were queen of France or of England, if she 
were empress of Germany or of Constantinople, she 
could not be more courteous or more gracious; she 
could not have sweeter ways or greater virtues.” 

[Now they sing it .] 

All the night and all the day 

Aucassin would beg and pray, — 

“Oh, my father! give my Nicolette to me.” 

Then his mother came to say, — 

“ What is it that my foolish boy can see ? ” 

“ Hicolette is sweet and gay.” 

“ But Nicolette ’s a slave. 

If a wife my hoy would have, 

Let him choose a lady fair of high degree/’ 

“ Oh, no! my mother, no! 

For I love my darling so! 

Her face is always bright, 

And her footstep ’s always light ; 

And I cannot let my dainty darling go. 

Ho, mother dear, she rules my heart ; 

Ho, mother dear, we cannot part.” 


[Now they speaTc it, and talk it, and tell it.] 

When the Count Garin de Beaucaire saw that he 
could not drag Nicolette out from the heart of Aucas* 


108 


NICOLE TTE AND AUCASSIN. 


sin, he went to find the viscount, who was his vassal ; 
and he said to him, — 

“ Sir Viscount, we must get rid of your god-child 
Nicolette. 

“ Cursed be the country where she was born ! for 
she is the reason why I am losing my Aucassin, who 
ought to be a knight, and who refuses to do what he . 
ought to do. 

“ If I can catch her, I will burn her at the stake, 
and I will burn you too.” 

“ My lord,” replied the viscount, “ I am very sorry 
for what has happened ; but it is no fault of mine. 

“1 bought Mcolette with my money; I trained 
her ; I had her baptized ; and she is my god-child. 

“ I wanted to marry her to a fine young man of 
mine, who would gladly have earned her bread for 
her, which is more than your son Aucassin could do. 

“ But, since your wish and your pleasure are what 
they are, I will send this god-child of mine away to 
such a land, in such a country, that Aucassin shall 
never set his eyes upon her again.” 

“ See that you do so ! ” cried the Count Garin to 
the viscount, “ or great misfortunes will come to you.” 

So saying, he left his vassal. 

Now the viscount had a noble palace, of high walls, 
surrounded by a thickly planted garden. He put 
Nicolette into one of the rooms of this palace, in the 
very highest story. 

She had an old woman for her only companion, 
with enough bread and meat and wine, and every- 
thing else that they needed to keep them alive. 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


109 


Then he fastened and concealed the door, so that 
no one could go in ; and he left no other opening but 
the window, which was very narrow, and opened on 
the garden. 

[Now they sing it.'] 

Nicole tte was put in prison; 

And a vaulted room 
Wonderfully built and painted 
Was her prison home. 

The pretty maiden came 
To the marble window-frame : 

Her .hair was light, 

Her eyes were bright, 

And her face was a charming face to see. 

No ; never had a knight a maid 
With such a charming face to see. 

She looked into the garden close, 

And there she saw the open rose, 

Heard the thrushes sing and twitter, — 

And she sang in accent bitter, — 

** Oh ! why am I a captive here ? 

Why locked up in cruel w'alls ? 

Aucassin, my sweetheart dear, 

Whom my heart its master calls, 

I have been your sweetheart for this livelong year : 
That is why I ’ve come 
To this vaulted room ; 

But by God, the son of Mary, no ! 

I will not be captured so, 

If only I can break away, and go.” 

[Now they speaTc it , and talk it, and tell it.] 

So Nicolette was put in prison, as you have just 
heard; and soon a cry and noise ran through the 
country that she was lost. Some said that she had 


110 


. NICOLE TTE AND A UC AS SIN. 


run away ; others said that the Count Garin de Beau- 
caire had killed her. 

All in despair at the joy which this news seemed 
to cause to some people, Aucassin went to find the 
viscount of the town. 

“ Lord Viscount,” he asked him, “ what have you 
done with Nicolette, my sweetest love, the thing in 
all the world which I love best ? 

“ You have stolen her ! 

“ Be sure, Viscount, that, if I die of this, the blame 
shall fall on you. 

“For surely it is you who tear away my life in 
tearing away my darling Nicolette ! ” 

“ Fair sir,” answered the viscount, “ do let this Ni- 
colette alone, for she is not worthy of you. She is a 
slave whom I have bought with my deniers ; and she 
must serve as a wife to a young fellow of her own 
state, to a poor man, and not to a lord like you, who 
ought to marry none but a king’s daughter, or at least 
a count’s daughter. 

“ What should you be doing for yourself, if you did 
make a lady of this vile creature, and marry her ? 

“ Then would you be very happy indeed, very happy; 
for your soul would abide forever in hell, and never 
should you enter into paradise.” 

“ Into paradise ? ” repeated Aucassin angrily. “ And 
what have I to do there ? I do not care to go there 
if it be not with Nicolette, my sweetest darling whom 
I love so much. 

“ Into paradise ? And do you know who those are 
that go there, — you who think it is a place where I 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


Ill 


must wisli to go ? They are old priests, old cripples, 
old one-eyed men, who lie day and night before the 
altars, sickly, miserable, shivering, half-naked, half-fed, 
dead already before they die. These are they who go 
to paradise ; and they are such pitiful companions, 
that I do not desire to go to paradise with them. 

“ But to hell would I gladly go ; for to hell go the 
good clerks, and the fair knights slain in battle and 
in great wars, the brave sergeants-at-arms, and the 
men of noble lineage; and with all these would I 
gladly go.” 

“ Stop ! ” says the viscount. “ All which you can 
say, and nothing at all, are exactly the same thing. 
Never shall you see Nicole tte again. 

“ What you and I may get for this would not be 
pleasant, if you still will be complaining. 

“We all might be burned by your father’s com- 
mand, — Nicolette, you, and I myself into the bar- 
gain.” 

“ Despair ! ” said Aucassin to himself. And he left 
the viscount, who was quite as much disturbed as he. 

[Now they sing it .] 

Then Aucassin went home ; 

But his heart was wrung with fear 

By the parting from his dainty dear, 

His dainty dear so fair, 

Whom he sought for everywhere ; 

But nowhere could he find her, far or near. 

To his palace he has come, 

And he climbs up every stair : 

He hides him in his room, 

And weeps in his despair. 


112 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


“ Oil, my Nicolette! ” said he, 

“ So dear and sweet is she! 

So sweet for that, so sweet for this, 

So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss, 

So sweet to come, so sweet to stay, 

So sweet to sing, >so sweet to play. 

So sweet when there, so sweet when here, 

Oh, my darling! Oh, my dear! 

Where are you, my sweet, while I 
Sit and weep so near to die, 

Because I cannot find my darling dear ? ” 1 

[Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it .] 

Now, while Aucassin was mourning thus in his 
room, always grieving for Nicole tte his love, the 
Count Bougars de Valence was keeping up his war 
against the Count Garin de Beaucaire. 

He had drawn out his footmen and his horsemen 
to assault the castle ; and the defendants of the 
castle seized their arms to meet him, and ran to 
the gates and walls where they thought the besiegers 
would attack. The people of the town followed 
the knights and the sergeants: they mounted the 
ramparts, and poured down a storm of quarrels and 
javelins. 

In the very most terrible moment of the assault, 

1 The original is very pretty, and can "be guessed out, even by 
the unlearned reader : — 

“ Nicolete biax esters, 

Biax venir et biax alers 
Biax deduis et dous parlers, 

Biax borders et biax jouers, 

Biax baisiers, biax acolers.” 


Biax is beata, * 


NICOLETTE AND AU CAS SIN. 


113 


the Count Garin de Beaucaire came into the room 
where Aucassin was grieving in his 'sorrow for his 
sweet darling, Nicolette. 

“ Oh, my hoy ! ” he said, “ what are you doing here 
while your castle is besieged, good and strong though 
it he ? Do you know, that, if you lose it, you are dis- 
inherited ? Boy, take your arms, mount your horse, 
defend your lands, and lead your men to battle. As 
soon as they see you in the midst of them, they will 
bravely defend their homes and their lives, your lands 
and mine. You are tall and strong ; and you ought 
to show that you are.” 

“Bather,” replied Aucassin, “what are you talking 
about ? May God refuse me all that I may ever ask 
him, if I consent to be made a knight, to mount a 
horse, or to go to fight, before you have given me 
Nicolette, my darling sweetheart ! ” 

“ Boy,” replied his father, “ this cannot be. I had 
rather be disinherited, and lose all I have, than that 
you should have her for your wife.” 

On this the Count Garin de Beaucaire turned away. 
But Aucassin called him back, and said to him, 
“ Come, father, I beg you ! I have one condition to 
propose to you.” 

“ What is that, dear boy ? ” 

“ It is this. I will take my arms, I will mount my 
horse, and I will do my duty bravely, on condition 
that, if God bring me out of the battle unhurt, you 
will let me see my darling sweetheart, Nicolette, and 
embrace her. There shall be time to say two or 
three words to her, and to kiss her once.” 

8 


114 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


“ I grant it willingly,” said the father ; and he went 


away. 


[Now they sing it.'] 

Not diamonds bright, or heaps of gold 
Would give to you such bliss 
As blessed this boy when he was told 
The way to earn a kiss. 


They quickly brought him arms of steel, 
His helmet and his crest ; 

Upon his head the helmet laced ; 

And then a double hauberk braced 
Across his breast. 

He springs upon his charger white ; 

And when he glances on his feet 
His greaves are tight and silver bright : 
His darling dear he thinks upon ; 

He spurs his war-horse fleet, 

And rushes straight before him down 
To the fight. 


[Here they speak it, and talk it, and tell it.] 

Aucassin was armed, then, as you have heard. 

How bright his shield, as it hung from his neck ! 
how well his helmet fitted his head ! and how his 
sword clanged, hanging upon his thigh ! 

The young man was tall,, strong, handsome, and 
well armed. His horse was swift ; and he was soon 
at the castle-gate. 

Now, do not go and think that he was thinking the 
least in the world of capturing oxen or cows or goats ! 
No, nor of giving mortal blows to the knights or the 
other soldiers of Count Bougars de Valence ! 


NI COLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


115 


Oh, no, not he ! He had something else in his 
head and in his heart ; for he was thinking of Nico- 
lette, his darling sweetheart. So he even forgot to 
hold up his reins ; and his horse, as soon as he once 
felt the spurs, carried him in full meUe into the very 
middle of his enemies. 

They were overjoyed at such luck. They sur- 
rounded him, and seized his lance and his shield, and, 
as they led him away prisoner, began to ask each 
other with what death they would make him die. 

“ Alas ! ” said Aucassin to himself, “ these are my 
mortal enemies, who are leading me away to cut off 
my head. But, if my head is cut off, I shall never 
he able to speak again to Nicole tte, my darling sweet 
heart.” 

Then he added, “ I still have my good sword. I 
am mounted on a strong horse. If he does not save 
me from the mdlee, it is because he never loved me, 
and then may God never help him ! ” 

So he grasped his sword in his hand, and drove his 
spurs into his horse’s side again, and struck to right, 
and struck to left, and cut and thrust. At every 
blow, he chopped off heads and arms, and all around 
him he made the place bloody and empty, as a boar 
does when he is assailed by dogs in a forest. Ten 
kniohts were thus maimed, and seven others were 
wounded. Then he withdrew at once from the mdlee 
with his horse at full gallop, still grasping his sword 
in his hand. 

Now the Count Bougars de Valence had heard 
they had captured his enemy Aucassin, and that they 


116 


NICOLE TTE AND AUCASSIN. 


were going to hang him. He came up there at just 
this moment. Aucassin recognized him, and struck 
him a heavy blow with his sword full on his helmet, 
so that it was crushed down upon his head, and he 
fell stunned upon the ground. Then the young man 
took him by the hand to help him up, and, as soon as 
he could stand, took him by the nose-piece of his 
helmet, and led him, without more ado, to his father, 
the Count Garin de Beaucaire, to whom he said, — 

“ Father, here is your enemy, who has fought so 
long against you, and done you so much mischief. 
This war which he has made against you has lasted 
now for twenty years, and no one has been able to 
bring it to a good end. But I hope it is finished 
to-day.” 

“ Dear son;” replied the old count, “ such feats of 
youth as this are worth much more than your foolish 
loves.” 

“Father,” replied Aucassin, “do not begin to 
preach to nje, I beg you. Think, rather, of keeping 
the promise which you gave to me.” 

“ What promise, my dear boy ? ” 

“ What ! have you already forgotten it, my father ? 
By my head ! forget it who will, I shall remember it. 
What ! my father, do you not remember, that when 
I consented to arm myself, and go and fight this 
count’s people, it was on condition that, if God 
should bring me out of the battle unhurt, you would 
let me see my darling sweetheart, Nicolette, and say 
two or three words to her, and kiss her once ? As 
you promised this, my father, so you must perform.” 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


117 


“ I hear,” replied the count ; “hut I do not under- 
stand. It is impossible that I ever promised any- 
thing so foolish. Why, if your Nicolette was here, 
I should burn her without pity, and you yourself 
might expect the same fate.” 

“ Is that all, my father ? ” said Aucassin. 

“ Yes,” replied the count. 

“ Certes ,” replied the boy, “ I am very sorry to see 
a man of your age such a bar ! ” 

Then he turned towards the Count de Valence, and 
said to him, “ Count de Valence, are you not my 
prisoner ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Give me your hand, then, I beg you.” 

“Gladly,” replied the count; and he placed his 
hand in Aucassin’s. 

Aucassin replied, “Count de Valence, pledge me 
your faith that, whenever you have the wish or the 
power to shame my father, or to hurt him, in his 
person or in his goods, you will do so.” 

“ Pardieu, sir ! do not mock me, hut name my ran- 
som. Ask for gold or silver, horses or palfreys, dogs 
or birds, and I will try to give you what you ask. 
This is another thing.” 

“What!” cried Aucassin, “do you not own your- 
self my prisoner ? ” 

“ Indeed I do,” cried the Count de Bougars. 

“Well, if you will not take the oath I demand, 
your head shall fly off.” 

“ Enough ! I take the oath you exact,” said the 
count quickly. 


118 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


Then Aucassin ordered a horse for him, mounted 
another, and led him to a place of safety. 

[Now they sing it.\ 

Now when the Count Garin 
Finds out that Aucassin 
His darling sweet 
Will not forget, 

His darling of the charming face, 

He claps him in a dungeon, 

In a cellar underground, 

All walled in with heavy stones, 

Built double thick around ; 

And my wretched Aucassin 
So sad as now had never been. 

“ Oh, my darling Nicolette ! ” 

In his misery said he, 

“ My darling dear of charming face, 

My darling fleur de lis , 

My darling sweeter than the grape, 

My darling, list to me, 

Imprisoned in this horrid place. 

“ The other day a pilgrim gray 
From Limousin had made his way, 

And on the straw the poor man lay, 

So sick was he, and near to die. 

But Nicolette passed by his door. 

The pilgrim heard my darling’s feet 
Pit-pat across the floor ; 

He saw my darling’s little cloak 

Her cape so white, her ermine bright ; 

And though no word she spoke, 

Yet, when he saw my darling sweet, 

The poor old pilgrim raised his head, 

And, cured by her, he left his bed, 

And took his staff, and took his way, 

And found his home once more. 


NI COLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


119 


** Oh, darling dear ! oh, fleur delis I 
So sweet to come, so sweet to stay, 

So sweet to sing, so sweet to play, 

So sweet for that, so sweet for this, 

So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss, 
Who is there who my love can see, 

And hate a girl so sweet as she ? 

For you, dear child, your love is hound 
In this dungeon underground : 

Here they will see me die alone 
For you, my fleur de lis!” 


[Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it.] 

Aucassin was thrown into prison, as you have just 
heard. And Nicolette, on her part, was still in the 
vaulted room, imprisoned also. 

j It was in the summer-time in the month of May, 
when the days are so warm, and so long, and so full 
of light, and the nights so sweet and so serene. Ni- 
colette lay in her bed, and saw the moon shine clear 
through the window, and heard the nightingale sing 
among the trees of the garden. She remembered 
Aucassin, the friend she loved so well, and she began 
to sigh tenderly. Then she thought upon the deadly 
hatred of the Count Garin de Beaucaire, and she 
knew that she was lost if she remained in this room, 
and that her dear Aucassin would be lost also if he 
remained in his dungeon. 

Then she looked at the old woman who was set to 
guard her, and she saw that she was asleep. M- 
colette rose quickly, threw a fine silk mantle which 
she had saved over her shoulders, took the sheets 
and coverlet of her bed, made of them as long a rope 


120 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


as she could, and tied it to the window-post. When 
she had done this, she seized it with both hands, one 
above, and one below, and slid down upon the turf, 
which was covered with dew. 

Thus she descended into the garden. 

Nicolette’s hair was blonde, fine, and curly; her 
eyes were soft and laughing ; her complexion was fair 
and fresh ; her nose high and well placed ; her lips 
were redder than cherries and roses in summer-time, 
and her teeth white and small. You could span her 
little waist with your two hands ; and the daisies 
which she broke when she stepped upon them, as 
they fell back upon her ankles, seemed black against 
her feet, so fair was this girl. 

She went to the garden-gate and opened it ; she 
walked through the streets of Beaucaire by the light 
of the moon, and strayed here, and strayed there, till 
she found the tower in which was her sweetheart, 
Aucassin. Now, this tower had loopholes in it on 
each side. 

Nicolette crept in behind one of the pillars, and 
wrapped herself in her mantle, and thrust her blonde 
head into one of the crevices, so that she could hear 
the voice of her dear Aucassin, who was weeping 
within bitterly, in great grief for the loss of his dar- 
ling sweetheart, who was absent from his eyes. And, 
when Nicolette had heard him, she resolved to speak 
to him, in turn. 

[ Now they sing it . ] 

Nicolette, of lovely face, 

Rested in this darksome place, 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASS1N. 


121 


Against a pillar, where 
The heavy wall her lover kept : 

She heard her darling as he wept 
In his despair. 

Then, in turn, to him she cried, 

“ Aucassin, of noble race, 

Freeman born, and proud of place, 

"Why should you complain and grieve,' 

Because you must your sweetheart leave ? 

Your father fain would burn me, 

And all your kinsmen spurn me. 

From you, my darling love, I flee : 

I shall go and cross the sea, 

In other lands than this to be.” 

Then she cut off her golden hair, 

And threw it to her lover there. 

Each heavy lock, each pretty curl, 

Aucassin in rapture prest. 

And hid them on his panting breast, 

While he wept in his despair 
For his darling girl. 

[Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it .] 

Now, when Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she 
was going to another country, he was very much 
distressed. 

“ My darling sweetheart,” he said, “ you shall never 
go ; for that would be to give me my death-blow, and 
the most cruel death-blow of all. The first man that 
saw you would take you for his own ; and, when I 
heard that, I should plunge my knife into my heart. 
No, I would not do that ! I would run with all my 
might against a wall or a rock, and I would throw 
myself head first upon it, with such a plunge, that 


122 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


my eyes should spring out, and I would brain myself. 
I would rather by a hundred times die such a death, 
than know that you belonged to any other man ! ” 

“ Aucassin,” replied Nicolette, “ I do not believe 
that you love me as much as you say ; but I am 
quite sure that I love you more than you love me.” 

“ Never ! ” replied Aucassin. “ Oh, my darling 
sweetheart ! you cannot love me more than I love 
you. No woman can love man as man loves woman; 
for woman’s love is in her eye, it is in the tip of her 
toe, and the end of her finger : but man’s love is in 
the bottom of his heart, and so firmly does it grow 
there, that it can never be uprooted.” 

So did Aucassin and Nicolette talk together when 
the watchmen of the town came up by the next 
street, with their swords hidden under their cloaks. 

Now, the Count Garin had bidden these people 
kill Nicolette if they could take her; and just as 
they were coming up where they would see her, and 
run to seize her, the lookout on the tower saw them. 

“ What a pity,” cried he, “ to kill so pretty a girl as 
this ! It would be a mercy to warn her before these 
wretches see her. For, as soon as they kill her, my 
boy Aucassin will die; and that would be a pity, 
certes ! ” 

[Now they sing it .] 

Now, I tell you that this lookout 
"Was as courteous as brave, 

And so this song the man began, 

Poor Nicolette to save, — 

“ Oh, my pretty girl ! ” said he, 

“ Whose heart can beat so true and free, 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


123 


Whose eyes are bright, whose form is light, 

And whose face is so sweet to see, 

I know you ’re watching there 
For your lover underground ; 

He weeps for you in his despair, 

Bolted, barred, and bound. 

Now, maiden, list to me : 

Of the night-watch beware, 

For they are passing by, 

A hidden sword on every thigh ; 

Hide yourself as they pass by j 
Maiden, beware.” 

{Now they speak it; and talk it , and tell it.] 

“ Ah ! ” replied Nicolette to the lookout, “ may God 
grant eternal repose to the souls of your father and 
of your mother for this kindly warning you have given 
to me ! I will take care of the rascals, whoever they 
may he ; and in this the good God will help me.” 

So saying, she wrapped herself in her mantle as 
closely as she could, and hid herself silently in the 
shadow of the pillar. So she waited till the watch- 
men had passed by ; and, when she thought them far 
enough gone, she took leave of Aucassin, and went 
her way. 

So she came to the castlq walls. Now these were 
broken in many of the joints ; and the active girl was 
able to let herself down, with the help of her hands, 
as a little four-footed kid would have done. But, 
when she was half-way down, she looked into the 
ditch, and she was frightened to see how sheer and 
steep it was. 

“ Oh, my dear Maker God ! ” she whispered, “ if I 


124 NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 

let myself fall, I shall break my neck ; if I stay where 
I am, they will seize me, and burn me : well, one 
death with another, I had rather run the risk of being 
killed than serve as a sight for all the people to- 
morrow.” 

So she made the sign of the cross, and let herself 
slide down the face of the wall to the very bottom of 
the ditch. Then she looked at her pretty feet and 
her pretty hands, which had never known what it 
was to be wounded before. They were all scratched 
and torn ; and the blood flowed from them in a dozen 
places. But Nicolette felt no pain, because she was 
still so much afraid ; for she had only succeeded in 
getting into the ditch, and now she must get out 
again. 

The bold girl tried here, and she tried there ; for she 
knew that it was a bad place to stay in ; and at last 
she found one of the pointed stakes, which the de- 
fenders of the castle had thrown down on the besiegers 
when they were attacked. This she took, and with 
its aid she clambered up the reverse of the ditch, 
step after step. And soon she was at the top, though 
not without great pains. 

The woods were two arbalist shots away from her, 
— woods which stretched thirty leagues this way ? 
and thirty leagues that way, all haunted by wild 
beasts and venomous serpents. Poor Nicolette was 
frightened to death when she thought of them, because 
she did not want to be eaten alive; but still she 
pressed on, because she had no more wish to be 
burned alive. 


NI COLETTE AND A UC AS SIN. 


125 


[Noio they sing it .] 

Nicolette, of lovely face, 

Clambered from the ditch so deep, 

And then began to wail and weep, 

And to Jesns Christ to cry : — 

“ Father, king of majesty, 

I do not know 
Where I shall go ; 

For if, in flight, I should 
Lose me in the wood, 

The boars and lions grim 
Would tear me limb from limb ; 

But if men find me anywhere, 

And to the town I am returned, 

They ’ll light a fire in the square, 

And to the stake will tie me there. 

And my body will be burned. 

“No, my God, no ! 

Hear me as I cry ; 

It shall not be so ; 

Better far that I 
By the wolves be hunted down, 

Than go captive to the town 
So to die 1 

“ I will not go.” 

[Now they tell it , and speak it, and talk it."] 

Nicolette grieved, as you have heard, and then 
commended herself to God, and plunged into the 
woods, but did not dare go too far in, for fear of 
beasts and snakes. 

She walked along for some time by the edge of the 
wood, frightened to death, starting at the slightest 
sound, and then going forward again with the utmost 


126 


NICOLE TTE AND AU CAS SIN. 


care. She walked this way and that, till she was so 
tired that she could walk no longer, and she lay down 
on a smooth bed of grass, and went to sleep; and 
there she slept till morning. 

Early in the morning some shepherds passed by, 
on their way towards the town, as they were driving 
their sheep and herds to feed between the woods and 
the river. Now there was a fresh fountain near the 
place where Nicolette [was lying ; and it happened 
that the shepherds came to the fountain, and spread 
a cloak on the grass, and put their bread upon it, and 
sat down there for their simple breakfast. 

While they were eating it, Nicolette was wakened 
by their talk, and by the song of the birds who were 
twittering in the branches. 

She went to the shepherds, and spoke to the young- 
est of them, and said, — 

“Pretty boy, may our Lady Mary take care of 
you!” 

“ May God bless you ! ” replied this young shepherd, 
whose speech came easier to him than the others. 

“ Pretty boy,” said Nicolette, “ do you know Aucas- 
sin, the son of Count Garin, of Beaucaire ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! we know him.” 

“ As you would have * God bless you, pretty boy, 
tell him that there is a strange wild beast in this 
wood ; and that he ought to come out to hunt for her; 
and that, if he takes her, he would hot give one of 
her limbs, — no, not for a hundred marks of gold, nor 
for five hundred marks, nor for all the gold that can 
be told” 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


127 


As she said this, the shepherds were looking at 
Mcolette, and were wondering at her beauty. 

“ You speak falsein saying this/’ said the shepherd, 
who had his tongue more at command than the others 
had ; “ for there is not in all this forest a single lion, 
or boar, or stag, or any other brute, so rare, that one 
of his limbs should be worth more than two deniers, 
or three at most. And you talk of such suras of 
money, that no one will believe a word you say. 
You are a fairy, and no human creature. We do not 
want your company ; and so go your way.” 

“ Ah, pretty boy !” said Mcolette again, “ do what 
I bid you in the name of God ; for the creature of 
which I speak to you has such power, that she can 
cure Aucassin of this trouble in which he is now. I 
have five sous in my purse, take them, and say to 
him, that, for three days, he must come to hunt for 
this creature in this forest • that, if he do not find her 
in three days at most, he will never be cured from 
his pain.” 

“ By my faith ! ” said the young shepherd, “ we will 
take your money. If Aucassin passes this way, we 
will tell him what you say ; but we will not go to 
find him.” 

“God bless you!” said Mcolette. And so she 
bade the shepherds good-by courteously. 

f Now they sing it .] 

Nicolette of lovely face 

Bade the shepherd boys good-day, 

And through the forest took her way, 

Till she came to a crossing-place, 


128 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


Where seven roads met in the wood ; 

There, all alone, she thought it good 
Her lover’s love to try. 

She gathers store of fleurs-de-lis 
And thyme and brake, v 
And many leaves, 

Her hut to make ; 

And from all these she weaves 

The prettiest hut your eyes did ever see. 

And then, by every saint above, 

The pretty builder swore, 

That, if her darling dear 
Should never enter here, 

She would not be his darling more, 

Hor should he be her love. 

[Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it .] 

Nicolette having thus made her little hut, and 
thatched it thickly on the inside and on the outside 
with fresh leaves and fragrant flowers, hid herself 
under a hush to see what Aucassin would do. 

Now the rumor ran through all the country that 
Nicolette was lost. Some said that she had escaped, 
and others said that the Count Garin had killed her. 

If everybody else had been sure of this, Aucassin 
would not have been. But of this he gave no sign. 
And his father, well pleased to be rid of Nicolette, 
ordered that he should be released from prison, and 
hade all the knights and damsels of the country give 
fetes for him, which might distract him. 

The day when Nicolette disappeared, when the 
court of the count was crowded with knights and 
ladies, Aucassin was leaning against a pillar, all de- 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


129 


jected, and out of his senses with sorrow, and only 
thinking of her he loved. 

A knight who saw how melancholy he was came 
to him and said, — 

“ Aucassin, I have been sick of the same disease 
as you, so that I know how to give you good advice, 
if you will only hear me.” 

“ Thank you, sir ! ” said Aucassin ; “ for indeed I 
am greatly in need of good advice and cure.” 

Then the knight said, “ Mount your horse, and go 
into the woods yonder. The sight of the plains, the 
sweet odor of the plants, and the songs of the little 
birds will all comfort you, believe me.” 

“ Thank you, indeed, sir ! ” said Aucassin. “ I will 
gladly do so.” 

So he went out from the hall at once, and went 
down the steps, hurried to the stable, and put saddle 
and bridle on one of his horses, which was waiting 
there. He put his foot in the stirrup, sprang upon 
the noble beast, and rode out from the castle walls. 
Once outside, he remembered the advice which the 
knight had given to him, and went straight to the 
woods. Here he soon met the shepherds seated on 
the grass around the spring, eating their bread with 
great joy ; for it was now noon. 

[Now they sing it.\ 

.411 the shepherd-hoys had met, 

Esmeret and Martinet, 

Johannot and Fruclinet, 

Aubuget and Robecon. 

By the spring they sat ; and ono 
8 


130 


NICOLE TTE AND AU CAS SIN 


. "With the sweetest voice began, 

“ God bless Master Aucassin, 

And the girl so fair and bright, 

With teeth so white, and eyes so gray, 

Who to us this blessed day 
The money brought, 

With which we bought 
Cakes to eat, and pipes to play, 

Flutes and horns and whittles good, 

And heavy mauls to cleave the wood. 

May God cure him ! 

May God cure her ! 

This is what I say.” 

[Now they tell it, and say it, and talk it .] 

When Aucassin heard the shepherds singing this, 
he thought in a moment that his sweetheart Nicolette, 
his well-beloved, had passed that way. To make sure 
of this, he hastened to them. 

“ God bless you, my fine boys ! ” he cried. 

“ God care for you ! ” replied he whose speech came 
easiest to him. 

“ My good boys,” said Aucassin, “ sing me the song 
again which you were singing just now.” 
t “No, my fine lord, we will not sing it again ; and 
cursed be he who shall sing it to you ! ” 

“ My fine fellows, do you not know me ? ” 

“ We know you very well, sir : we know that yo,u 
are Aucassin, our young gentleman. But we are not 
your men ; we are the count’s men.” 

“ I beg you to do what I ask you.” 

“Why should I sing for you, if I do not choose to 
sing ? It is very true that the Count of Garin is the 
richest man in all this country ; but if he found one 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


131 


of my oxen or cows or sheep, in his grazing-lands 
or in his grain, he would make their eyes fly out. 
Why should I sing for you, then, if I choose to hold 
my tongue ? ” 

“May God bless you, my hoys ! ” said Aucassin 
again. “ See, here are ten sols which I have found 
in my pocket. Take them, and sing to me again the 
song I heard you sing just now.” 

“ Sir,” said the shepherd, “ I will take your money ; 
but I will not sing to you, because I have sworn that 
I will not. I will do what I can ; and I will tell it 
to you, if you please.” 

“ Pardieu ! ” cried Aucassin, “ I had rather hear 
your story than hear nothing.” 

“ Sir,” said the shepherd again, “ we were sitting 
here by the spring, just as we are now. It was 
between the first hour and the third hour. We were 
eating our bread here, when there came up a girl who 
was the most beautiful creature in the world, so that 
we thought she was a fairy ; for the whole wood was 
lighted up by her. 

“She gave us so much of her money that we 
promised her that, if you passed by here, we would 
tell you that you must go and hunt in the forest ; and 
that there was such a creature, that, if you caught 
her, you would not sell one of her joints, — no, not 
for five hundred marks of silver, — and also that you 
would be cured of your disease. She also said that, 
if you did not catch this creature before three days 
had passed, you would never see her. Go to the 
hunt, then, if you please, or do not go to the hunt, 


132 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


if you do not please : as to that, I have nothing to 
do. I have told my message.” 

“You have said quite enough, my boys,” replied 
Aucassin. “ God grant that I may meet her ! ” 

[Now they sing it .] 

Aucassin most gladly heard 
Every sweet and loving word 
Of his darling of the charming face : 

In his heart they pierced him so, 

That he left the shepherds good, 

And plunged into the deepest wood. 

Where’er his horse might choose to go. 

“ 0 Nicolette, my sweet ! ” 

He sighed as sadly as before, 

“ It is you l hope to meet : 

I do not hunt nor deer or boar. 

In this forest black 
It is you I track, 

That I this blessed day 

Your pretty smile may greet, 

May see your pretty eyes of gray ; 

See you, my darling sweet I 
' For oh ! the Almighty I implore 
That I may see your face once more, 

My dear ! ” 

[Now they tell it, and speak it, and talk it .] 

Aucassin wandered here and there in the forest, 
just as his horse might carry him. Do not think 
that the brambles and briers spared him. I can tell 
you that they tore his clothes so that he had hardly 
a rag left upon him. And the blood ran down his 
arms, his sides, and his legs, in thirty or forty differ- 
ent places ; so that you might have tracked him in 


NI COLETTE AND A U CAS SIN. 


133 


the wood by the red drop's which he left on the grass 
wherever he went. But Aucassin was all the time 
thinking of his darling sweetheart Mcolette, so that 
he did not once feel any pain. 

So he travelled through the forest all day long, 
without gaining any news of his beautiful sweetheart ; 
and, when he saw the night coming on, he began to 
weep bitterly. 

As he was riding along through an old path, where 
the bushes had grown up thick and high, he saw 
before him, right in the middle of the road, a man 
whom I will describe to you. 

He was large, and marvellously ngly. His face 
was blacker than broiled meat, and it was so large 
that there was a palm-breadth between his two eyes. 
His cheeks were enormous ; and so were his nostrils 
and his nose, which was flat ; his lips were big, and 
redder than coals ; and he had frightful great yellow 
teeth. He had on sandals of leather, and greaves of 
leather, which were tied with thongs up to his knees. 
He was covered with a great double cloak, and was 
resting on a heavy club. 

Aucassin was frightened, and said to him, “ Good 
brother, may God help you ! ” 

“ God bless you ! ” replied the other. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” said Aucassin. 

“ What affair is that of yours ? ” 

“ I only ask with good will.” 

“ Well, why are you mourning and weeping so ? 
If I were as rich a man as you are, I am sure nothing 
in the world would make me weep.” 


134 


NI COLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


“ How do you know me, then ? ” 

“ I know that you are Aucassin, the son of the 
count ; and, if you will tell me why you weep, I will 
tell you why I am here.” 

“ I am very glad to tell you. I came out to hunt 
this morning. I had a white harrier, the prettiest 
dog in the whole world; and I have lost him. That 
is the reason why I am weeping.” 

“ What' ! For a miserable dog will you use the 
tears in your eyes or the heart in your breast ? You 
are a poor creature to be weeping so — and you the 
richest man in the country ! If your father wanted 
fifteen or twenty white harriers, he could have them 
in a minute. Now I am in sorrow for something 
real.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ I am going to tell you, sir. I was hired by a rich 
farmer here to drive his cart, which was drawn by 
four oxen. It is three days since I lost the red ox, 
who was the finest of the four. I went here, and I 
went there ; I left my wagon, and sought everywhere 
for the beast, but I could not find him. It is three 
days since I ate anything or drank anything; and 
here I stray about, for I do not dare go into the town. 
They would put me in prison ; for I have nothing to 
pay with. All my wealth is what you see upon my 
body. I have a mother. She, poor woman, was not 
richer than I. All she had was an old petticoat to 
cover her poor old body; and they pulled that off 
her back, and now she is lying in the straw. That 
troubles me more than my condition. For money 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASS1N. 


135 


comes and goes. If I lose to-day, I will gain to- 
morrow ; and, when I can pay for the ox, I will. I 
will never shed a tear for such a trifle as that. And 
here are you crying for a lost dog ! You are a poor 
creature ! ” 

“ Certes, my good fellow, you are a good comforter,” 
said Aucassin. “ May God bless you ! Tell me, how 
much was the red ox worth ? ” 

“ They charge me twenty sols for him, sir ; nor can 
I heat them down a doit.” 

“ Here are twenty sols which I have in my purse ; 
take them, and pay for your ox.” 

“ Thank you, indeed, sir ! ” said the man, “ and may 
God send you that you are looking for ! ” So saying, 
he took leave ; and Aucassin went on upon his way. 

The night was fine and clear. Aucassin rode and 
rode for a long time ; and after he had passed from 
one road to another, and from one path to another, he 
came at last to Nicolette’s little lodge. 

Inside and outside, before and behind, it had 
flowers marvellous sweet and lovely to the eye. A 
ray of moonlight lighted it up, so that Aucassin saw 
the pretty lodge, and stopped in a minute. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, “ nobody but my darling Nicolette 
made this bower ; and she has made it with her own 
pretty hands. Tor her sake and in memory of her 
I will dismount now; and I will spend the night 
here.” 

So saying, he took his foot from the stirrup, that 
he might dismount. But alas ! he was thinking of 
nothing but Nicole tte, and was taking no care of him- 


136 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


self. Besides, his horse was large and was high ; and 
so it happened that he fell upon a stone, and fell so 
hard that he put his shoulder out of joint. 

All wounded as he was, still he was able to fasten 
the horse to a tree with his other arm. Then he went 
hack to the lodge, and entered it, and lay upon his 
back, and looked up at the blue sky and the golden 
stars through a hole in the roof of his fragrant retreat. 
As he lay and looked, he saw one star brighter than 
all the others. Then, with a sigh, he began to sing. 

[Now they sing it .] 

Star of light, which I behold 
With the Queen of Light, 

Nicolette of locks of gold 
Is with thee to-night. 

Oh ! if I were there in "bliss 
In thy still home above, 

How gladly would I pet and kiss 
My sweetest love ! 

[Now they tell it, and spealc it, and talk it .] 

When Nicolette heard Aucassin, she ran to him ; 
for she was not far off. She entered the lodge, and 
threw her beautiful arms around his neck, kissed him, 
and embraced him most tenderly. 

“ Well found, dear sweet friend !” said she. 

“ And you, my darling, you are well found ! ” and 
so they kissed again and again with infinite joy. 

“ 0 my darling,” said Aucassin, “ my shoulder is 
sadly wounded. But, now I am with you, I know 
no pain nor grief.” 

Nicolette, when she heard this, felt of the place, 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


137 


and found, indeed, that the shoulder was out of joint. 
Then she tore a piece of linen, and placed in it a tuft 
of flowers and fresh herbs, and placed it on the sick 
place ; and so she tended it and bandaged it with her 
white hands, that, with the aid of God, who cares for 
lovers, she cured him. 

“ Aucassin, my darling,” said she, “ what will you 
do now ? If your father searches this wood to-mor- 
row, he will find us. I do not know what will happen 
to you ; hut for me, I know I shall be killed.” 

“ That is true, my darling,” said Aucassin ; “ and 
that would he great grief to me : hut, as long as I can, 
I will defend you and save you.” 

So saying, he mounted his horse, took his sweetheart 
before him, kissing her and embracing her ; and so 
they rode across the country. 

[Now they sing it.] 

Aucassin, the handsome hoy, 

Glad with love and quick with joy, 

Leaves this bower of their rest ; 

Nicolette he fondly prest 
In his arms upon his breast ; 

He folded fast his pretty prize. 

Kissed her lips, and kissed her eyes. 

Kissed her lovely face all over, — 

Laughing boy and happy lover. 

But all this must not last. 

“Dear Aucassin,” 

The girl began, 

“To what country shall we go ?” 

“ Dear child,” said he, “ how should I know? 

Little, dearest, do I care, 

How we go, or when, or where, — 


138 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


In this wood, or far away, 

If from you I do not stray.” 

Then mountains high they passed, 

Passed through many lands, 

Till to the sea they found their way, 

And stood upon the sands 
By the shore. 

[Now they tell it, and speak it, and talk it .] 

Aucassin and his darling then dismounted. He 
took his horse by the bridle, and her by the hand, 
and so they walked along the beach. By and by 
they saw some sailors, and made signals to them; 
and the men landed, and agreed to take them back 
with them to the ship. 

As soon as they were at sea, a terrible storm arose, 
so wonderful that it hurled them along from one 
country to another, till they came to a harbor at the 
castle of Torelore . 1 They asked what country it 
was, and were told it was the country of the King of 
Torelore. Then Aucassin asked if he were at war ; 
and they said he was, and that it was a very cruel 
war. Then he thanked the sailors, and took leave of 
them ; mounted his horse, with Nicolette before him, 
and so rode towards the castle. 

“ Where is the king ? ” said he. 

“ He is in bed,” they said. 

1 Torelore, or Turelure, so called, it is said, from the singular- 
ities of the people. Now, Turelure is the refrain of an old French 
song, which means, “ always the same,” as; we might say, “So, 
so, so, so, so.” The place is Aigues Mortes, known to tourists, hut 
now five or six miles from the sea. Aigues Mortes was originally 
Aquae Mortuoe, the name of a land-locked seaport. — e. e. h. 


NICOLETTL AND A UCASSIN. 


139 


“ And where is his wife ? ” said Aucassin. 

“ She is in the army, where she leads all the people 
of the country.” 

When Aucassin heard this, he was very much 
amazed. He went to the palace, dismounted with 
Hicolette, begged her to hold his horse, and, with his 
sword at his side, went to the king’s chamber. There 
he pulled the clothes off the bed, and threw them 
into the middle of the room. Then he seized a stick, 
and heat the king so heartily that you would have 
thought he would kill him. 

“ Oh, oh, oh ! my dear sir,” cried the king. “ What 
are you doing with me ? Are you crazy, to beat a 
man so in his own house ? ” 

u By the heart of God ! ” replied Aucassin, “ I will 
kill you, misbegotten dog, if you do not swear that 
no man in this country shall ever lie in bed as you 
do.” 

The king took the oath ; and Aucassin then said, 
“ How take me to the army, where your wife is.” 

“ With pleasure,” said the king. 

Both went down to the court. The king mounted 
a horse, Aucassin mounted his own; Nicolette took 
refuge in the- queen’s chamber; and both the men 
went to the army. When they arrived, the battle 
was in all its fury. The battle was fought with wild 
apples, eggs, and green cheeses. 

[Now they sing it .] 

Aucassin, of noble blood, 

By the battling armies stood, 

And wondered at the sight ; 


140 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


For men-at-arms were seen 
Keeping up the fight : 

With eggs they threw, with all their might, 
Apples raw and cheeses green ! 

And the soldier who with these 
Most disturbed the fountain bright, 

He was deemed the bravest knight. 
Aucassin, of noble blood, 

Watched this battle where he stood, 

And laughed outright. 


[Now they tell it, speak it, and talk it .] 

Aucassin went to the king, and said to him, “ Are 
these your enemies, sir ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the king. 

“ Do you wish to have me avenge you ? ” 

“ Indeed I do ! ” 

Then Aucassin drew his sword, plunged into the 
thick of the fight, and cut and thrust from right to 
left ; so that in almost no time he had killed a great 
number. 

“ My dear sir,” cried the king, seizing Aucassin’s 
horse by the bridle, “ do not kill them in this way ! ” 

“ How else can I avenge you ? ” said Aucassin. 

"Sir, you do too much. It is not our custom to 
kill each other in this fashion : all that we do is to 
put the enemy to flight.” 

Then they returned to the Castle of Torelore, where 
the people of the country advised the king to drive 
Aucassin out of his land, and to keep this pretty girl 
Nicolette for his wife ; for she seemed to them a lady 
of high degree. 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 141 


When Nicolette heard this, she was sor6ly grieved, 
and said, — 

[Now they sing it.\ 

“ Sire, king of Torelore, 

Puissant prince and lord of glory,” 

Said the pretty Nicolette, ’ 

“You think me like a fool in story : 

I am not one yet. 

Aucassin shall I forget. 

Who loves me as his own ? 

Not all your shows and dances proud, 

Not all your harps and viols loud, 

Are worth my dear alone.” 

[Now they tell it, and speaTc it, and talk it .] 

Aucassin and his darling Nicolette took great de- 
light and ease in the Castle of Torelore. 

While they were there, some Saracens came up by 
sea, who assaulted the castle, and took it by storm. 
As soon as they had taken it, they carried off the 
people prisoners. They put Nicolette into one ship, 
and Aucassin into another, tied hand and foot. Then 
they set sail again. 

As they sailed, a violent storm arose; and the 
ships were separated from each other. The ship in 
which Aucassin was was thrown so far at the mercy 
of the waves that at last she came to the Castle of 
Beaucaire. 

The people of that country ran to the harbor ; and 
when they recognized Aucassin, they were very happy, 
for he had been away for three years, and his father 
and mother were dead. They took him in triumph 


142 


NICOLETTE AND AU CAS SIN. 


to the Castle of Beaucaire, and acknowledged him as 
their lord and master in place of the Count Garin. 
He took possession of his lands in peace. 

[Now they sing it.] 

Aucassin did repair 

To his town of Beaucaire, 

And well governed kingdom and city. 

How glad would he be, 

If he only could see 
His own Nicole tte so pretty 1 

“ Dear child of sweet face, 

How I wish that I knew 
To what sort of place 
I must go to find you ! 

There is no land or sea 
God has made here below, 

Where to look after thee 
I would not gladly go.” 

[Now they tell it , they speak it, and talk it.] 

We will leave Aucassin there, that we may tell 
about Nicolette. 

The ship on which she had been taken away was 
that of the King of Carthage and his twelve brothers, 
who were princes and kings like himself. When 
they saw how beautiful Nicolette was, they did her 
great honor, and asked who she was ; for she seemed to 
them a noble lady of high degree. But she could give 
them no account of herself, having been carried from 
home when she was a very little girl. 

Soon they came to Carthage. As soon as they 
saw the walls of the castle, and all the country round 


NICOLE TTE AND A UC AS SIN. 


143 


about, Nicolette recollected that it was here that she 
had been nursed, and had grown up, and that it was 
here where she had been taken as a slave ; for she 
had not been so young but she remembered perfectly 
well that she had been daughter of the King of 
Carthage. 


[Now they sing it.] 

The wise Nicolette 

"Walks up on the shores, 

And she does not forget 
The castles and towers. 

At first, the grand sight 
Filled the child with delight, 

Then she sighed, “ Well-a-day ! 

What would Aucassin say, 

My own darling knight, 

If he knew that the pirates, that terrible day, 
The Princess of Carthage had carried away ? 

“ Dear hoy, thy heart’s love 
Brings me sorrow and pain ; 

May the good God above 
Let me see thee again ! 

Come, fold me in thine own embrace, 
Kiss my lips, and kiss my eyes, 

Kiss again your sweetheart’s face ! ” 

So his princess sadly cries 
To her lord and lover. 


When Nicolette sang this, the King of Carthage 
heard her. 

“My dear child,” he cried, throwing his arms 
around her neck, “ tell me who you are, I beg you ! 
Do not be afraid of me.” 


144 


NICOLE TTE AND AUCASSIN. 


“ Sir,” replied Kicolette, “ I am the daughter of the 
King of Carthage, from whom I was stolen fifteen 
years ago.” 

It was easy for the king and his brothers to see 
that what Nicolette said was true. So they took her 
to the palace, and made a great fete for her, as was 
fitting for the daughter of a king. They wished to 
give her for a wife to a king of the pagans ; hut she 
refused. She said she did not yet wish to marry. 

After three or four days, she thought of the way 
by which she could gain some news of Aucassin. 
The only way she could think of was to learn to, 
play the violin ; and one day, when they wanted to 
marry her to a rich pagan prince, she ran away, and 
came to the harbor, where she lodged with a poor old 
woman who lived there. Then she took a certain 
herb, and squeezed the juice out of it ; and with this 
juice she stained her pretty face from top to bottom, 
so that all of a sudden it became quite black. Then 
she made herself a tunic, a mantle, shirt, and breeches, 
and so disguised herself as a minstrel ; took her violin, 
and went to a sailor, who, with some hesitation, agreed 
to take her into his ship. 

The sails were already set ; and so swiftly did the 
ship sail here and there through the high sea, that 
she arrived at the country of Provence ; and there 
Nieolette landed with her violin. Once on land, 
the gentle girl began wandering through the country, 
playing her violin as she went from this place to that, 
until she came to the Castle of Beaucaire, where was 
Aucassin. 


N1 COLETTE AND A UC AS SIN, 


145 


[Now they sing it.] 

Aucassin is sitting there 
At his castle at Beaucaire ; 

All his barons brave surround him, 

Sweet the flowers and birds around him : 

But he is in despair. 

For Aucassin cannot forget 
His charming Nicolette, 

His darling fair. 

While he sighs, the girl has found him ; 

For she stands upon the stair, 

Deftly tunes her viol-strings, 

And to the prince and barons sings : — 

“Wise and loyal knights, 

Hear my little lay : 

How Nicolette and Aucassin were kept so far apart, 

While he loved her, as she loved him, with all his heart, 
As you do not love every day. 

** One day the pagans made her slave 
In the tower of Torelore. 

Where was Aucassin the brave ? 

I do not know his story. 

But Nicolette, of whom I sing, 

Is in Carthage bound, 

Where she has her father found, 

And where he reigns as king. 

He .would give the maiden over 
To wed in pomp a pagan lover. 

But Nicolette says, No ! 

She loves a damoiseau, 

Named Aucassin, and so 
She will. wed no pagan hound, 

She waits alone till she has found 
Him whom she loves.” 

[Now they tell it, and speak it, and talk it.] 

When Aucassin heard Nicolette sing this, he 

10 


146 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


was full of joy. He led her on one side, and 
said, — 

“ My good fellow, do you know anything more of 
this Nicolette, whose story you have been singing to 
us?” 

“Yes, sir: I know that she is the most constant, 
and the wisest creature that ever was born, as well 
as the most beautiful. She is the daughter of the 
King of Carthage, from whom she was stolen in her 
childhood ; and he, in turn, took her and Aucassin 
from the Castle of Torelore. Glad was he, indeed, to 
find her ; and now he wants to marry her to one of 
the mightiest kings of Spain. But Nicolette would 
rather be hanged and burned than consent to be the 
wife of any but Aucassin, though she were asked to 
wed the most powerful and the richest prince in the 
earth.” 

“ My good fellow,” cried Aucassin, “ if you could 
only return to the country where Nicolette now is, 
and tell her that I beg her to come here to speak to 
me, I would gladly give you all you could ask, or all 
you could take of what I have. For love of her, I 
shall take no other wife, of however high degree ; 
for I shall never have any except her, whom here I 
wait for, and whom I should have gone to seek, had 
I only known where to find her.” 

“ Sir, if you have thus determined, I will go and 
seek Nicolette, for your sake and for her sake, for I 
love her truly.” 

Then Aucassin swore that this was his dearest 
thought and wish; and he gave to the minstrel 
twenty livres. 


NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 147 

As the minstrel turned away, she saw that he was 
weeping, so strong was his passion. 

So she turned on her steps, and said, “ Do not be 
distressed, sir. I promise you I will bring her before 
long.” 

Aucassin thanked her ; and Nicolette at once with- 
drew, and went to the house of the viscountess, the 
wife of the viscount, her godfather, He was dead. 
At this house Nicolette lodged : she made a confidante 
of his widow, and told her the whole story. 

Her mistress recognized her readily as being the 
Nicolette whom she had educated. She bade her 
wash herself and bathe, and rest for a week. Then 
she anointed her face with the juice of a certain herb 
she knew ; and she did this so often and so well that 
Nicolette again became as beautiful as ever. 

When all this was done, Nicole tte dressed herself 
in rich robes of silk, of which the lady had ample 
provision. Then she seated herself upon a sofa of 
the same stuff, and sent her hostess to seek her 
friend. 

The viscountess came to the palace, where she 
found Aucassin, who was weeping and wailing for 
his darling Nicole tte, who was too long in coming, as 
he said. 

“ Aucassin,” said the lady to him, “ do not lament 
any longer, but come with me. I will show you the 
thing w 7 hich you love best in all the world ; that is 
Nicole tte, your sweetheart dear, who has come from 
distant lands to join you again.” 

Aucassin was very happy. 


148 NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN. 


[Now they sing it.\ 

When Aucassin has heard 
This lady’s welcome word, 

That the girl of lovely face, 

His sweetheart dear, had come 
To that place, 

He comes as quick as wind 
With this lady who could find 
Her in her home. 

He comes into the room 
Where his darling has her seat. 

When she sees the boy appear, 

Quickly to his arms she flies 
To kiss his lips, and kiss his eyes, 

Her only love, her only dear, 

And give him welcome sweet. 

So the evening sped away ; 

And on the morning of another day 
She was espoused to him there, 

And so became the Lady of Beaucaire. 
To both long days of pleasure came, — 
Pleasure that was aye the same ; 
Nicolette, the happy she, 

And Aucassin, the happy he. 


And here will end my little lay, 
Because I ’ve nothing more to say. 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 

No. I. 


THE LOST PALACE. 

[From the Ingham Papers.] 

“ T)ASSENGrEKS for Philadelphia and New York 
will change cars.” 

This annoying and astonishing cry was loudly made 
in the palace-car “City of Thebes,” at Pittsburg, just 
as the babies were well asleep, and all the passengers 
adapting themselves to a quiet evening. 

.“Impossible!” said I mildly to the “gentlemanly 
conductor,” who beamed before me in the majesty of 
gilt lace on his cap, and the embroidered letters 
P. P. C. These letters do not mean, as in French, 
“ to take leave,” for the peculiarity of this man is, 
that he does not leave .you till your journey’s end : 
they mean, in American, “ Pullman’s Palace Car.” 
“ Impossible ! ” said I ; “ I bought my ticket at Chi- 
cago through to Philadelphia, with the assurance that 
the palace-car would go through. This lady has done 
the same for herself and her children. Nay, if you 
remember, you told me yourself that the 'City of 
Thebes’ was built for the Philadelphia service, and 
that I need not move my hat, unless I wished, till we 
were there.” 


150 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


The man did not blush, but answered, in the well- 
mannered tone of a subordinate used to obey, “ Here 
are my orders, sir ; telegram just received here from 
head-quarters : ‘ “ City of Thebes ” is to go to Balti- 
more.’ Another palace here, sir, waiting for you.” 
And so we were trans-shipped into such chairs and 
berths as might have been left in this other palace, as 
not wanted by anybody in the great law of natural 
selection ; and the “ City of Thebes ” went to Balti- 
more, I suppose. The promises which had been made 
to us when we bought our tickets went to their place, 
and the people who made them went to theirs. 

Except for this little incident, of which all my 
readers have probably experienced the like in these 
days of travel, the story I am now to tell w T ould have 
seemed to me essentially improbable. But so soon 
as I reflected, that, in truth, these palaces go hither, 
go thither, controlled or not, as it may be, by some 
distant bureau, the story recurred to me as having 
elements of vraisemblance* which I had not noticed be- 
fore. Having occasion, nearly at the same time, to 
inquire at the Metropolitan station in Boston for 
a lost shawd which had been left in a certain Brook- 
line car, the gentlemanly official told me that he did 
not know where that car was ; he had not heard of it 
for several days. This again reminded me of “ The 
Lost Palace.” Why should not one palace, more or 
less, go astray, when there are thousands to care for ? 
Indeed, had not Mr. Firth told me, at the Albany, 
that the worst difficulty in the administration of a 
strong railway is, that they cannot call their freight- 


THE LOST PALACE. 


151 


cars home ? They go astray on the line of some 
weaker sister, which finds it convenient to use them till 
they begin to show a need for paint or repairs. If 
freight-cars disappear, why not palaces ? So the story 
seems to me of more worth, and I put it upon paper. 

It was on my second visit to Melbourne that I 
heard it. It was late at night, in the coffee-room of 
the Auckland Arms, rather an indifferent third-class 
house, in a by-street in that city, to which, in truth, 
I should not have gone had my finances been on a 
better scale than they were. I laid down at last an 
old New- York Herald, which the captain of the 
" Osprey ” had given me that morning, and which, in 
the hope of home-news, I had read and read again to 
the last syllable of the “ personals.” I put down the 
paper as one always puts down an American paper 
in a foreign land, saying to myself, “ Happy is that 
nation whose history is unwritten.” At that moment 
Sir Eoger Tichborne, who had been talking with an 
intelligent-looking American on the other side of the 
table, stretched his giant form, and said he believed 
he would play a game of billiards before he went to 
bed. He left us alone; and the American crossed 
the room, and addressed me. 

“ You are from Massachusetts, are you not ? ” said 
he. I said I had lived in that State. 

“ Good State to come from,” said he. “ I was there 
myself for three or four months, — four, months and 
ten days precisely. Did not like it very well ; did 
not like it. At least, I liked it well enough : my wife 
did not like it ; she could not get acquainted.” 


152 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


“ Does she get acquainted here ? ” said I, acting on 
a principle which I learned from Scipio Africanus at 
the Latin School, and so carrying the war into the 
enemy’s regions promptly. That is to say, I saw I 
must talk . with this man, and I preferred to have him 
talk of his own concerns than of mine. 

“ 0 sir, I lost her, — I lost her ten years ago ! 
Lived in New Altoona then. I married this woman 
the next autumn, in Yandalia. Yes, Mrs. Joslyn is 
very well satisfied here. She sees a good deal of 
society, and enjoys very good health.” 

I said that most people did who were fortunate 
enough to have it to enjoy. But Mr. Joslyn did not 
understand this hitter sarcasm, far less resent it. He 
went on, with sufficient volubility, to give to me his 
impressions of the colony, — of the advantages it would 
derive from declaring its independence, and then 
from annexing itself to the United States. At the 
end of one of his periods, goaded again to say some- 
thing, I asked why he left his own country for a 
“ colony,” if he so greatly preferred the independent 
order of government. 

Mr. Joslyn looked round somewhat carefully, shut 
the door of the room in which we were now alone, — 
and were likely, at that hour of the night, to be alone, 
— and answered my question at length, as the reader 
will see. 

“ Did you ever hear of the lost palace ? ” said he a 
little anxiously. 

I said, no ; that, with every year or two, I heard 
that Mr. Layard had found a palace at Nineveh, but 
that I had never heard of one’s being lost. 


THE LOST PALACE. 


153 


“They don’t tell of it, sir. Sometimes I think 
they do not know themselves. Does not that seem 
possible ? ” And the poor man repeated this question 
with such eagerness, that, in spite of my anger at 
being bored by him, my heart really warmed toward 
him. “I really think they do not know. I have 
never seen one word in the papers about it. Now, 
they would have put something in the papers, — do 
you not think they would ? If they knew it them- 
selves, they would.” 

“ Knew what ? ” said I, really startled out of my 
determination to snub him. 

“ Knew where the palace is, — knew how it was 
lost.” 

By this time, of course, I supposed he was crazy. 
But a minute more dispelled that notion ; and I beg 
the reader to relieve his mind from it. This man knew 
perfectly well what he was talking about, and never, 
in the whole narration, showed any symptom of 
mania, — a matter on which I affect to speak with the 
intelligence of the “ experts ” indeed. 

After a little of this fencing with each other, in 
which he satisfied himself that my ignorance was not 
affected, he took a sudden resolution, as if it were a 
relief to him to tell me the whole story. 

“It was years on years ago,” said he. “It was 
when they first had palaces.” 

Still thinking of Nimrod’s palace and Priam’s, I 
said that must have been a great while ago. 

“ Yes, indeed,” said he. “ You would not call them 
palaces now, since you have seen Pullman’s and 


154 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


Wagner’s. But we called them palaces theji. So 
many looking-glasses, you know, and tapestry carpets 
and gold spit-boxes. Ours was the first line that run 
palaces.” 

I asked myself, mentally, of what metal were the 
spit-boxes in Semiramis’ palace ; but I said nothing. 

“ Our line was the first line that had them. We were 
running our lightning express on the ‘ Great Alle- 
ghanian.’ We were in opposition to everybody, made 
close connections, served supper on board, and our 
passengers only were sure of the night-boat at St. 
Louis. Those were the days of river-boats, you know. 
We introduced the palace feature on the railroad ; 
and very successful it was. I was an engineer. I. 
had a first-rate character, and the best wages of any 
man on the line. Never put me on a dirt-dragger 
or a lazy freight loafer, I tell you. No, sir ! I ran 
the expresses, and nothing else, and lay off two days 
in the week, besides. I don’t think I should have 
thought of it but for Todhunter, who was my palace 
conductor.” 

Again this IT, which had appeared so mysteriously 
in what the man said before. I asked no question, 
but listened, really interested now, in the hope I 
should find out what IT was ; and this the reader 
will learn. He went on, in a hurried way : — 

“ Todhunter was my palace conductor. One night 
he was full, and his palace was hot, and smelled bad 
of whale-oil. We did not burn petroleum then. 
Well, it was a splendid full moon in August ; and 
we were coming down grade, making the time we 


THE LOST PALACE. 


155 


had lost at the Brentford Junction. Seventy miles an 
hour she ran if she ran one. Todhunter had brought 
his cigar out on the tender, and was sitting by me. 
Good Lord ! it seems like last week. 

“ Todhunter says tome, ‘Joslyn,’ says he, * what’s 
the use of crooking all round these valleys, when it 
would be so easy to go across ? ’ 

“ You see, we were just beginning to crook round, 
so as to make that long bend there is at Chainoguin ; 
but right across the valley we could see the stern 
lights of Fisher’s train : it was not more than half a 
mile away, but we should run eleven miles before we 
came there.” 

I knew what Mr. Joslyn meant. To cross the 
mountain ranges by rail, the engineers are obliged to 
wind up one side of a valley, and then, boldly cross- 
ing the head of the ravine on a high arch, to wind up 
the other side still, so that perhaps half an hour’s 
journey is consumed, while not a mile of real distance 
is made. Joslyn took out his pencil, and on the back 
of an envelope drew a little sketch of the country ; 
which, as it happened, I still preserve, and which, 
with his comments, explains his whole story com- 
pletely. “ Here we are,” said he. “ This black line 
is the Great Alleghanian, — double track, seventy 
pounds to the yard ; no figuring off there, I tell you. 
This was a good straight run, down grade a hundred 
and seventy-two feet on the mile. There, where I 
make this X, we came on the Chamoguin Valley, and 
turned short, nearly north. So we ran wriggling 
about till Drums here, where we stopped if they 


156 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


showed lanterns, — what we call a flag-station. But 
there we got across the valley, and worked south 
again to this other X, which was, as I say, not five 
eighths of a mile from this X above, though it had 
taken us eleven miles to get there.” 



He had said it was not more than half a mile ; but 
this half-mile grew to five eighths as he became more 
accurate and serious. 

“Well,” said he, now resuming the thread of his 
story, “ it was Todhunter put it into my head. He 
owns he did. Todhunter says, says he, f J oslyn, 
what’s the use of crooking round all these valleys, 
when it would be so easy to go across ? ’ 

“Well, sir, I saw it then, as clear as I see it now. 


THE LOST PALACE. 


157 


When that trip was done, I had two days to myself, — 
one was Sunday, — and Todhunter had the same ;and 
he came round to my house. His wife knew mine, 
and we liked them. Well, we fell talking about it ; 
and I got down the Cyclopaedia, and we found out 
there about the speed of cannon-balls, and the direc- 
tion they had to give them. You know this was only 
talk then ; we never thought what would come of it ; 
but very curious it all was ” 

And here Mr. Joslyn went into a long mathemati- 
cal talk, with which I will not harass the reader, 
perfectly sure, from other experiments which I have 
tried with other readers, that this reader would skip 
it all if it were written down. Stated very briefly, 
it amounted to this : In the old-fashioned experi- 
ments of those days, a cannon-ball travelled four 
thousand and one hundred feet in nine seconds. How, 
Joslyn was convinced, like every other engineman I 
ever talked to, that on a steep down-grade he could 
drive a train at the rate of a hundred miles an hour. 
This is thirteen hundred and fourteen feet in nine 
seconds, — almost exactly one third of the cannon- 
ball’s velocity. At those rates, if the valley at Cha- 
moguin were really but five eighths of a mile wide, 
the cannon-ball would cross it in seven or eight 
seconds, and the train in about twenty-three seconds. 
Both Todhunter and Joslyn were good enough me- 
chanics and machinists to know that the rate for 
thirty- three hundred feet, the width of the valley, was 
not quite the same as that for four thousand feet ; for 
which, in their book, they had the calculations and 


158 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


formulas; but they also knew that the difference 
was to their advantage, or the advantage of the bold 
experiment which had occurred to both of them 
when Todhunter had made on the tender his very 
critical suggestion. 

The reader has already conceived the idea of this 
experiment. These rash men were wondering already 
whether it were not possible to leap an engine flying 
over the Chamoguin ravine, as Eclipse or Flying 
Childers might have leaped the brook at the bottom 
of it. Joslyn believed implicitly, as I found in talk 
with him, the received statement of conversation, that 
Eclipse, at a single bound, sprang forty feqt. “If 
Eclipse, who weighed perhaps one thousand two hun- 
dred, would spring forty feet, could not my train, 
•weighing two hundred tons, spring a hundred times 
as far ? ” asked he triumphantly. At least, he said 
that he said this to Todhunter. They went into more 
careful studies of projectiles, to see if it could or could 
not. 

The article on “Gunnery” gave them just one of 
those convenient tables which are the blessing of wise 
men and learned men, and which lead half-trained 
men to their ruin. They found that for their “ range,” 
which was, as they supposed, eleven hundred yards, 
the elevation of a forty-two pounder was one degree 
and a third ; of a nine-pounder, three degrees. The 
elevation for a railway train, alas ! no man had calcu- 
lated. But this had occurred to both of them from 
the beginning. In descending the grade, at the spot 
where, on his little map, Joslyn made the more west- 


THE LOST PALACE. 


159 


erly X, they were more than eleven hundred feet above 
the spot where he had made his second, or easterly 
X. All this descent was to the advantage of the 
experiment. A gunner would have said that the first 
X “commanded” the second X, and that a battery 
there would inevitably silence a battery at the point 
below. 

“We need not figure on it,” said Todhunter, as 
Mrs. Joslyn called them in to supper. “ If we did, 
we should make a mistake. Give me your papers. 
When I go up, Monday night, I ’ll give them to my 
brother Bill. I shall pass him at Faber’s Mills. He 
has studied all these things, of course ; and he will 
like the fun of making it out for us.” So they sat 
down to Mrs. Joslyn’s waffles; and, but for Bill Tod- 
hunter, this story would never have been told to me, 
nor would John Joslyn and “this woman” ever have 
gone to Australia. 

But Bill Todhunter was one of those acute men of 
whom the new civilization of this country is raising 
thousands with every year ; who, in the midst of hard 
hand- work, and a daily duty which to collegians, and 
to the ignorant men among their professors, seems 
repulsive, carry on careful scientific study, read the 
best results of the latest inquiry, manage to bring 
together a first-rate library of reference, never spend 
a cent for liquor or tobacco, never waste an hour at a 
circus or a ball, but make their wives happy by sitting 
all the evening, “figuring,” one side of the table, 
while the wife is hemming napkins on the other. 
All of a sudden, when such a man is wanted, he steps 


160 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


out, and bridges the Gulf of Bothnia; and people 
wonder, who forget that for two centuries and a half 
the foresighted men and women of this country have 
been building up, in the face of the Devil of Selfish- 
ness on the one hand, and of the Pope of Borne on 
the other, a system of popular education, improving 
every hour. 

At this moment Bill Todhunter was foreman of 
Bepair Section No. 11 on the “ Great Allegha- 
nian,” — a position which needed a man of first-rate 
promptness, of great resource, of good education 
in engineering. Such a man had the “ Great Alle- 
ghanian ” found in him, by good luck ; and they had 
promoted him to their hardest-worked and best-paid 
section, — the section on which, as it happened, was 
this Chamoguin run, and the long bend which I 
have described, by which the road “headed” that 
stream. 

The younger Todhunter did meet his brother at 
Faber’s Mills, where the repair-train had hauled out 
of the way of the express, and where the express took 
wood. The brothers always looked for each other on 
such occasions; and Bill promised to examine the 
paper which Joslyn had carefully written out, and 
which his brother brought to him. 

I have never repeated in detail the mass of calcu- 
lations which Bill Todhunter made on the suggestion 
thus given to him. If I had, I would not repeat 
them here, for a reason which has been suggested 
already. He became fascinated with the problem 


THE LOST PALACE. 


161 


presented to him. Stated in the language of the 
craft, it was this : — 

“ Given a moving body, with a velocity eight thou- 
sand eight hundred feet in a minute, what should be 
its elevation that it may fall eleven hundred feet in 
the transit of five eighths of a mile ? ” He had not 
only to work up the parabola, comparatively simple, 
but he had to allow for the resistance of the air, on 
the supposition of a calm, according to the really 
admirable formulas of Robins and Coulomb, which 
were the best he had access to. Joslyn brought me 
one day a letter from Bill Todhunter, which shows 
how carefully he went into this intricate inquiry. 

Unfortunately for them all, it took possession of 
this spirited and accomplished young man. You see, 
he not only had the mathematical ability for the cal- 
culation of the fatal curve, but, as had been ordered 
without any effort of his, he was in precisely the 
situation of the whole world for trying in practice his 
own great experiment. At each of the two X X of 
Joslyn’s map, the company had, as it happened, 
switches for repair-trains or wood-trains. Had it not. 
Bill Todhunter had ample power to make them. 

For the “ experiment,” all that was necessary was, 
that under the pretext of re-adjusting these switches, 
he should lay out that at the upper X so that it 
should run, on the exact grade which he required, to 
the western edge of the ravine, in a line which should 
be the direct continuation of the long, straight run 
with which the little map begins. 

An engine, then, running iown that grade at the 
11 


162 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


immense rapidity practicable there, would take the 
switch with its full speed, would fly the ravine at 
precisely the proper slopes, and, if the switch had 
been rightly aligned, would land on the similar switch 
at the lower X. It would come down exactly right 
on the track, as you sit precisely on a chair when you 
know exactly how high it is. 

“ If” And why should it not be rightly aligned, 
if Bill Todhunter himself aligned it ? This he was 
well disposed to do. He also would align the lower 
switch, that at the lower X, that it might receive into 
its willing embrace the engine on its arrival. 

When the bold engineer had conceived this plan, 
it was he who pushed the others on to it, not they 
who urged him. They were at work on their daily 
duty, sometimes did not meet each other for a day or 
two. Bill Todhunter did not see them more than 
once in a fortnight. But whenever they did meet, 
the thing seemed to be taken more and more for 
granted. At last Joslyn observed one day, as he ran 
down, that there was a large working-party at the 
switch above Drums, and he could see Bill Tod- 
hunter, in his broad sombrero, directing them all. 
Joslyn was not surprised, somehow, when he came to 
the lower switch, to find another working-party there. 
The next time they all three met. Bill Todhunter told 
them that all was ready if they were. He said that he 
had left a few birches to screen the line of the upper 
switch, for fear some nervous bungler, driving an 
engine down, might be frightened, and “ blow ” about 
the switch. But he said that any night when the 


THE LOST PALACE. 


163 


others were ready to make the fly, he was ; that there 
would be a full moon the next Wednesday, and, if 
there was no wind, he hoped they would do it then. 

“ You know,” said poor Joslyn, describing it to me, 
“ I should never have done it alone ; August would 
never have done it alone ; no, I do not think that 
Bill Todhunter himself would have done it alone. 
But our heads were full of it. We had thought of it 
and thought of it till we did not think of much else ; 
and here was everything ready, and neither of us was 
afraid, and neither of us chose to have the others think 
he was afraid. I did say, what was the truth, that I had 
never meant to try it with a train. I had only thought 
that we should apply to the supe, and that he would 
get up a little excursion party of gentlemen, — editors, 
you know, and stockholders, — who would like to do 
it together, and that I should have the pleasure and 
honor of taking them over. But Todhunter poolied at 
that. He said all the calculations were made for the 
inertia of a full train, that that was what the switch 
was graded for, and that everything would have to be 
altered if any part of the plan were altered. Besides, 
he said the superintendent would never agree, that lie 
would insist on consulting the board and the chief 
engineer, and that they would fiddle over it till 
Christmas. 

“ No/ said Bill, ' next Wednesday, or never ! If 
you will not do it then, I will put the tracks back 
again/ August Todhunter said nothing ; but I knew 
he would do what we agreed to, and he did. 

“So at last I said I would jump it on Wednesday 


164 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


night, if the night was fine. But I had just as lief 
own to you that I hoped it would not be fine. Tod- 
hunter — Bill Todhunter, I mean — was to leave the 
switch open after the freight had passed, and to drive 
up to the Widow Jones’s Cross Boad. There he 
would have a lantern, and I would stop and take him 
up. He had a right to stop us, as chief of repairs. 
Then we should have seven miles down-grade to get 
up our speed, and then — we should see ! 

“Mr. Ingham, I might have spared myself the 
hoping for foul weather. It was the finest moonlight 
night that you ever knew in October. And if Bill 
Todhunter had weighed that train himself, he could 
not have been better pleased, — one baggage-car, one 
smoking-car, two regular first-class, and two palaces : 
she run just as steady as an old cow ! We came to 
the Widow Jones’s, square on time; and there was 
Bill’s lantern waving. I slowed the train : he jumped 
on the tender without stopping it. I ‘up brakes’ * 
again, and then I told Flanagan, my fireman, to go back 
to the baggage-car, and see if they would lend me some 
tobacco. You see, we wanted to talk, and we did n’t 
want him to see. ‘Mr. Todhunter and I will feed 
her till you come back,’ says I' to Flanagan. In a 
minute after he had gone, August Todhunter came 
forwai^l on the engine ; and, I tell you, she did fly ! 

“‘Not too fast,’ said Bill, ‘ not too fast : too fast 
is as bad as too slow.’ 

“ ‘ Never you fear me,’ says I. ‘ I guess I know 
this road and this engine. Take out your watch, and 


THE LOST PALACE. 


165 


time the mile-posts/ says I ; and he timed them. 

‘ Thirty-eight seconds/ says he ; ‘ thirty-seven and a 
half, thirty-six, thirty-six, thirty-six/ — three times 
thirty-six, as we passed the posts, just as regular as 
an old clock ! And then we came right on the mile- 
post you know at Old Flander’s. ‘ Thirty-six/ says 
Bill again. And then she took the switch, — I can 
hear that switch-rod ring under us now, Mr. Ing- 
ham, — and then — we were clear ! 

“ Was not it grand ? The range was a little hit up, 
you see, at first; but it seemed as if we were fly- 
ing just straight across. All the rattle of the rail 
stopped, you know, though the pistons worked just 
as true as ever; neither of us said one word, you 
know ; and she just flew — well, as you see a hawk 
fly sometimes, when he pounces, you know, only she 
flew so straight and true ! I think you may have 
dreamed of such things. I have ; and now, — now I 
dream it very often. It was not half a minute, you 
know, but it seemed a good long time. I said noth- 
ing and they said nothing ; only Bill just squeezed 
my hand. And jqst as I knew we must be half over, 
— for I could see by the star I was watching ahead 
that we were not going up, but were falling again, — 
do you think the rope by my side tightened quick, and 
the old bell on the engine gave one savage bang, turned 
right over as far as the catch would let it, and stuck 
where it turned ! Just that one sound, everything else 
was still ; and then she landed on the rails, perhaps 
seventy feet inside the ravine, took the rails as true 
and sweet as you ever saw a ship take the water, 


166 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


hardly touched them, you know, skimmed — well, 
as I have seen a swallow skim on the sea ; the pret- 
tiest, well, the tenderest touch, Mr. Ingham, that 
ever I did see ! And I could just hear the connect- 
ing rods tighten the least bit in the world behind me, 
and we went right on. 

“We just looked at each other in the faces, and we 
could not speak ; no, I do not believe we spoke for 
three quarters of a minute. Then August said, 'Was 
not that grand ? Will they let us do it always. 
Bill?’ But we could not talk then. Flanagan 
came hack with the tobacco, and I had just the wit 
to ask him why he had been gone so long. Poor 
fellow ! he was frightened enough when we pulled 
up at Clayville, and he thought it was Drums. 
Drums, you see, was way up the bend, a dozen miles 
above Clayville. Poor Flanagan thought we must 
have passed there while he wms skylarking in the 
baggage-car, and that he had not minded it. We 
never stopped at Drums unless we had passengers, or 
they. It was what we call a flag-station. So I 
blew Flanagan up, and told him he was gone too long. 

“Well, sir, at Clayville we did stop, — always 
stopped there for wood. August Todhunter, he was 
the palace conductor ; he ’went back to look to his 
passengers. Bill stayed with me. But in a minute 
August came running back, and called me off the 
engine. He led me forward, where it was dark ; but 
1 could see, as we went, that something was to pay. 
The minute we were alone he says, — 

“ f John, we ’ve lost the rear palace/ 


THE LOST PALACE. 


167 


“ ‘ Don’t fool me, August/ says I. 

‘“No fooling, John/ says he. ‘ The shackle parted. 
The cord parted, and is flying loose behind now. If 
you want to see, come and count the cars. The 
“ General Fremont ” is here all right ; but I tell you 
the “James Buchanan” is at the bottom of the Cha- 
moguin Creek.’ 

“ I walked hack to the other end of the platform, 
as fast as I could go, and not be minded. Todhunter 
was there before me, tying up the loose end of the 
bell-cord. There was a bit of the broken end of the 
shackle twisted in with the bolt. I pulled the bolt, 
and threw the iron into the swamp, far as I could 
fling her. Then I nodded to Todhunter, and walked 
forward, just as that old goose at Clayville had got 
his trousers on, so he could come out, and ask me if 
we were not ahead of time. I tell you, sir, I did not 
stop to talk with him. I just rang ‘ All aboard ! ’ and 
started her again ; and this time I run slow enough 
to save the time before we came down to Steuben. 
We were on time, all right, there.” 

Here poor Joslyn stopped a while in his story ; and 
I could see that he was so wrought up with excite- 
ment that I had better not interrupt, either with 
questions or with sympathy. He rallied in a minute 
or two, and said, — 

“ I thought — we all thought — that there would be 
a despatch somewhere waiting us. But no ; all was as 
regular as the clock. One palace more or less, — 
what did they know, and what did they care ? So 
daylight came. We could not say a word, you know, 


168 


STORIES OF TRAVEL. 


with Flanagan there; and he only stopped, you know, 
a minute or two every hour; and just then was 
when August Todhunter had to be with his pas- 
sengers, you know. Was not I glad when we came 
into Pemaquid, — our road ran from Pemaquid 
across the mountains to Eden, you know, — when 
we came into Pemaquid, and nobody had asked 
any questions ? 

“ I reported my time at the office of the master of 
trains, and I went home. I tell you, Mr. Ingham, 
I have never seen Pemaquid Station since that 
day. 

“I had done nothing wrong, of course. I had 
obeyed every order, and minded every signal. But 
still I knew public opinion might be against me 
when they heard of the loss of the palace. I did 
not feel very well about it, and I wrote a note to say 
I was not well enough to take my train the next 
night; and I and Mrs. Joslyn went to New York, 
and I went aboard a Collins steamer as fireman ; and 
Mrs. Joslyn, she went as stewardess ; and I wrote to 
Pemaquid, and gave up my place. It was a good 
place, too ; but I gave it up, and I left America. 

“Bill Todhunter, he resigned his place too, that 
same day, though that was a good place. He is in 
the Russian service now. He is running their line 
from Archangel to Astrachan ; good pay, he says, but 
lonely. August would not stay in America after his 
brother left; and he is now captain’s clerk on the 
Harkaway steamers between Bangkok and Cochbang; 
good place, he says, but hot. So we are all parted. 


THE LOST PALACE. 


169 


“ And do you know, sir, never one of us ever heard 
of the lost palace ! ” 

Sure enough, under that very curious system of 
responsibility, by which one corporation owns the 
carriages which another corporation uses, nobody in 
the world has to this moment ever missed “ The Lost 
Palace.” On each connecting line, everybody knew 
that “ she ” was not there ; but no one knew or asked 
where she was. The descent into the rocky bottom 
of the Chamoguin, more than fifteen hundred feet 
below the line of flight, had of course been rapid, — 
slow at first, but in the end rapid. In the first sec- 
ond, the lost palace had fallen sixteen feet ; in the 
second, sixty-four; in the third, one hundred and 
forty-four; in the fourth, two hundred and fifty-six; 
in the fifth, four hundred feet ; so that it must have 
been near the end of the sixth second of its fall, that, 
with a velocity now of more than six hundred feet 
in a second, the falling palace, with its unconscious 
passengers, fell upon the rocks at tne bottom of the 
Chamoguin ravine. In the dead of night, wholly 
without jar or parting, those passengers must have 
been sleeping soundly; and it is impossible, there- 
fore, on any calculation of human probability, that any 
one of them can have been waked an instant before 
the complete destruction of the palace, by the sud- 
den shock of its fall upon the bed of the stream. 
To them the accident, if it is fair to call it so, must 
have been wholly free from pain. 

The tangles of that ravine, and the swamp below 
it, are such that I suppose that even the most adven- 


170 


STORIES OF TRAVEL . 


turous huntsman never finds his way there. On the 
only occasion when I ever met Mr. Jules Verne, he 
expressed a desire to descend there from one of his 
balloons, to learn whether the inhabitants of “The Lost 
Palace ” might not still survive, and be living in a 
happy republican colony there, — a place without 
railroads, without telegrams, without mails, and cer- 
tainly without palaces. But at the moment when 
these sheets go to press, no account of such an adven- 
ture has appeared from his rapid pen. 


STORIES OF TRAYEL. 


No. II. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


CHAPTER I. 

BOUGHT. 

A S pretty a girl as there was in Ohio. And how 
much that says ! 

Brunette, or of that tendency, yet with blue eyes. 
And how much that says ! 

Tall and strong, not too plump, hut still not 
scrawny, nor as a skeleton in clothing. I do not 
say that she could whip her weight in wild-cats ; I do 
not know. Of that breed of animals few are left in 
Ohio, thanks to the prowess of the grandmothers of 
the present generation. But I do say that of the 
mother of the mother of Hester Bryan, of whom I 
write, this eulogy was simple truth. The Puma con- 
color , or native catamount of those regions, had yielded 
a hundred times before her prowess. And this I will 
add, — that Hester Bryan was just a hit taller and 
prettier than her mother, as she, in her day, was taller 
and prettier than hers. For there are worlds of life 
in which 

“ Nature gives us more than all she ever takes away.” 

Now do not go to thinking that Hester Bryan was 
a great strapping Amazon, and looked like a female 


172 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


prize-fighter. She was tall, and she was strong, and 
she was graceful as the Venus of the Porta Portese, 
if by good luck you ever saw her. 

And she was as good as pretty ; and she was the 
queen of the whole town, because she was pretty and 
good, and so bright. She never set herself up as 
grander than the other girls, and all the other girls 
set her up as the queen of their love and worship. 

And the boys ? Oh, that was of course. But then 
there were no “ pretenders,” as the French say. All 
that was settled long ago — as long ago as when she 
wore a sun-bonnet, and walked barefoot to school. 
Horace w T ould always he waiting for her at the Five 
Corners, with the largest and ripest raspberries, or 
with whatever other offering was in season. As long 
ago as when he made his first canoe, there would hang 
under her window, before breakfast, great bunches of 
the earliest pond-lilies. As soon as it would do for 
these young folks to go on sleigh-rides, it was in 
Horace’s cutter that Hester always rode. And when 
Hester sang in the choir, she always stood at the 
right hand of the altos, and just across the passage 
stood Horace, at the left hand of the tenors. Hot a 
young man in the village interfered with Horace’s 
pre-emption there. But not a young man in the vil- 
lage who did not stand by Horace as loyally as 
the girls stood by Hester; and if he had needed to 
summon a working party to build a bridge across a 
slue, that Hester might walk dry-shod with a white 
slipper on, why, all the young men of the neighborhood 
would be there as soon as Horace wound his horn. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


173 


A nice girl at the West once wrote me to ask why 
all the good young men, who were bright and spirited 
and nice, were in my books, and why, in fact, the 
bright boys, who knew something and could do some- 
thing and could be something — in short, were agree- 
able — were apt to be lounging round liquor saloons 
in the village when they should be better employed. 
I told her, of course, to w T ait a little ; that she was 
looking through some very small key-hole. How I 
wish that my unknown correspondent could have seen 
Horace Eay ! He was handsome, he was bright, he 
was strong, he was steady, he was full of fun ; he 
could read French well, and could talk German, and 
he knew enough Latin. And yet he did not lounge 
round a liquor saloon, and the minister was glad, and 
not sorry, that he sung in the choir. 

When this story begins, Horace Eay was twenty- 
two years old, and Hester Bryan was twenty-one. I 
know that that is dreadfully old for a story, but how 
can I help that ? Do you suppose I make it up as I 
go along ? If they did not choose to be married when 
he was eighteen and she seventeen, can I help that ? 
The truth is, that Hester’s father was a man who liked 
to have his own way, and in some things had it. He 
had not had it in making a large fortune, though he had 
always tried for that. In that business he had failed, — 
had failed badly. He was always just close to it ; but 
always, just as he touched the log on which he was to 
stand erect, quite out of the water, the log was pushed 
away by his touch, and floated quite out of reach, he 
paddling far behind. Hester’s mother was in heaven, 


174 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


or things might have been made easier for her. As it 
was, her father would not hear of her marrying Horace 
till Horace should have something better than expec- 
tations, till he was fixed in a regular business, with a 
regular income. Perhaps Ohio is now so far established 
as a conservative and old-fashioned country that most 
fathers of charming girls in Ohio will agree with him. 
Yet I never heard of any one’s starving in Ohio. 
They do say that no one was ever hungry there ! 

Because of this horrible sentence of old Mr. Bryan 
— because of this — the happiest day of Horace’s life 
was the day when he could come, at last, to Hester, and 
could tell her that he was appointed assistant engineer 
on the Scioto Valley Bailroad, with a salary of one 
thousand dollars a year, to be increased by one hun- 
dred dollars at the end of- the first year. Here was 
the “ regular income in the regular business,” and now 
all would be well. Would she be married in church, 
or would she rather go to Columbus, to be married 
quietly? For his part, he was all ready; he would 
like to be married that day. 

Of course this last part was only his little joke. 
But Hester, dear child, how well I remember how 
pretty and how cheerful she seemed all that week, and 
how little any of us thought of what was to come ! 
Hester was by no means a prude, and she was as 
happy as he. And the news lighted up all the village. 
Everybody knew it, from the canal-locks up to the 
mills, and everybody was glad. Horace Bay had a 
good place, and he and Hester Bryan could be married 
right away. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


175 


Tour days that happy dream lasted ; and even now 
Horace looks back on those four dream-days as 
days of unutterable joy and blessedness. He has 
'a little portfolio which Hester herself made for him, 
and on the back of which she painted his own mono- 
gram. It lies among his choicest treasures, and is 
never handled but with the most dainty care. It 
contains every note she wrote him — five in all — as 
those blessed days went by. Then it contains — ah, 
the pity ! — four little sunny songs which Horace 
wrote to her on four of those evenings, and which he 
sent to her on the four mornings, with the bunch of 
flowers which she found.at the front-door as she threw 
it open. These the poor girl had to give back to him. 
And all this is tied with a bit of ribbon, which is 
stained yet by the moisture on the stems of the flowers 
it tied together, — a little bunch of roses which Hester 
gave to him. For, as you must hear, these four days 
came to an end. 

Old Mr. Bryan came home — “ old ” he was called, in 
the fresh and active phrase of a young community, 
because he was older than John Bryan the miller. 

In truth, our Mr. Bryan was forty-five. He came 
home — from no one knew where. He was in low 
spirits : that all men saw as he left the railroad station 
— the ddpot, as they called it. The boy who drove 
him to his home — that is, who drove the horse which 
dragged the wagon in which old Bryan was carried to 
his home — this boy, I say, did not dare allude to 
Horace’s good news. Pretty Hester came running 
to meet him at the gate, fresh as a rose and glad 


176 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


as a sunbeam ; but she saw that all was w T rong. All 
the same, everything was pleasant and cheerful ; the 
children were neat and nice in their best clothes, the 
supper was perfect, and no returning conqueror had 
ever a more happy welcome. 

Before they slept, even to her downcast, not to say 
cross, father, Hester told her story, — her story and 
Horace’s. But old Bryan took it very hardly. It was 
all nonsense, he said. She must not think of weddings. 
His was no house to be married from. He was ruined : 
those infernal Swartwouts and Dousterswivels, or 
whatever else may have been the names of the swind- 
lers who had fooled him, had cleaned him out ; and the 
sooner the town knew he was ruined, and the world, 
why, the better, he supposed. Poor old Bryan was 
really to be pitied this time. Often as he had fallen, 
he had never fallen so far; and it certainly seemed 
as if he had fallen into mud and slime so thick and 
so deep, in a bog so utterly without bottom, that for 
him there was no recovery. 

“No time to talk of weddings.” This was all old 
Bryan would say. 

When Horace came to plead, it was no better. 
There was a time when old Bryan had liked Horace. 
If any man knew how to manage him, it was Horace. 
But now he was simply unmanageable, and too soon 
the reason appeared. 

There was a St. Louis merchant whom Bryan had 
met at Columbus the winter when he represented 
the district in the Legislature. From the first they 
seemed to have been great friends. When our pretty 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


177 


Hester made her winter visit to Columbus, to stay 
with Mrs. Dunn, this de Alcantara saw her, — the 
Duke de Alcantara, the Columbus girls called him, 
mostly in joke, but partly in mystery; for it was 
whispered that he might be a duke in Spain if he 
chose to be. This was certain, — that he was very rich 
— very. Those who disliked him most — and some 
people disliked him very much — had to own that 
he was very rich. Black-haired he was, very dark 
of complexion, and, Horace said, and all the party 
of haters, odious in expression. But whether Horace 
would have said that, had the two not crossed each 
other’s lines, who shall say ? The truth is that 
Baltasar de Alcantara was a great diamond merchant. 

And now the mystery appeared. Old Bryan said 
he could not talk of weddings, but soon enough he 
began to talk of one. Baltasar de Alcantara wanted 
to marry our Hester. This she had guessed at ; but 
she had thought she had put a very summary end 
to it. She had said to him squarely, the last time 
she saw him, “ Do you not know that I am engaged 
to be married, Mr. de Alcantara ? ” She had sup- 
posed that would be enough. She had not thought 
of the Oriental fashion of buying your wife; but 
Baltasar de Alcantara had. There must have been 
Eastern blood in him. Horace Bay, after he heard 
of the new proposal of marriage, said his rival had a 
nose which looked Eastern, — arched, but not Boman. 
However it was about the nose, the diamond merchant 
offered to buy our Hester. If she would marry him, 
or if old Bryan would make her marry him, he would 
12 


178 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


lend old Bryan all the money he wanted, up to fifty 
thousand dollars, on his personal security ; he would 
take at their face all old Bryan’s worthless stock in 
the Green Bay Iron Company, and he would make old 
Bryan vice-president in the Cattaraugus and Talla- 
hassee Railroad, of which he was a managing director. 
All this statement old Bryan repeated to our Hester. 

Of course Hester refused point-blank. And then 
for six months — nay, ten — came awful times for 
her. Hard times had she seen in that house before, 
but nothing like these ! Horace was banished first. 
She had to send back her engagement ring, and the 
letters and the songs I told you of. She had to 
promise not to meet him in the village, and she kept 
her promise; not to speak to him if she did meet 
him there. Then she could not go out anywhere. 
Then she was kept on bread and water, and the chil- 
dren too. Then there was this and that piece of 
furniture carried off to be sold at auction, — every- 
thing that was her mother’s and that her mother 
prized. Then poor Hester fell sick, and almost died. 
As soon as she rallied at all, old Bryan began again. 
And then Hester capitulated. That horrid Duke 
de Alcantara came — he came after dark, and came 
in his own carriage all the way from the station at 
London. Our boys would have mobbed him, I believe. 
He came, and I am bound to say he behaved very 
well. He was not obtrusive. He was gentle and 
gentlemanly. And when he went away he put a ring 
on Hester’s finger ; and she did not throw it in his 
face, nor did she tear out his eyes. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


179 


And so it was settled. And the house was fur- 
nished again, and Betsey Boll and old Miss Tucker 
came back to work in the kitchen again, and old 
Bryan’s bank account was better than it ever was. 
And on the 2d of April he went to Cincinnati to sit 
as V. P. of the C. and T. R. R. Co., and to draw his 
first quarter’s salary. 

And poor Horace never set his eyes on poor Hester’s 
pale face. 

And all the village knew that on the 15th of May 
Hester Bryan was to be married to the Duke de 
Alcantara. And Lucy Lander surrendered so far 
from the general tone of opinion of the girls as to 
agree to be a bridemaid. She had a splendid 
dress sent to her from St. Louis. Jane Forsyth and 
the other girls said they would burn at the stake 
first. But Lucy said — and I think she was right — 
that Hester had a right to have one friend near her 
to the last. 

The wedding was to be at St. Louis at St. Jude’s 
Church. The boys said it was Judas Iscariot’s Church, 
but this was their mistake. They said the Duke de 
Alcantara was afraid to be married in Hester’s home. 
This, I think, is probable. The arrangements were 
left mostly to “ the Duke ” and to old Bryan’s sister, 
Mrs. Goole — a skinny, wiry, disagreeable person, of 
a very uncertain age, who had made herself so 
unpleasant to all the neighbors on her visit to her 
brother, many years ago, that she had never come 
again till now. How that he needed some women- 
folk, Mrs. Goole was summoned to the rescue. 


180 


THE WES TERN GINEVRA . 


CHAPTER II. 

SOLD. 

On the 14th of May, the Pullman palace, Cleopatra, 
was waiting on a side-track at London, ready to take 
its first trip. It had been chartered, John the porter 
said, by a chap from St. Louis, who was going to take 
quite a party there. A bridal party it was. How 
large the party was to be, the porter did not know, 
though it was important enough to him. But he had 
dusted the new plush, clean as it was, and had wiped 
off the wood-work, though he could not stain his cloth 
on it. 

Presently the party came, headed by a dark gen- 
tleman talking to the station-master. The station- 
master introduced him to the conductor as Mr. De 
Alcantara. The eagle eye of the porter saw that 
there were twelve in the party. He waited for no 
introduction, hut seized the hand-baggage and dis- 
tributed it to the different sections. Meanwhile the 
party entered the car. 

But though the porter had assigned to each of 
their grandeurs a section of four seats, they did not 
mount each a separate throne. On the contrary, a 
pleasant-looking young lady, who might perhaps be 
the bride, and two children, sat down in tbe middle 
of the car. The rest were distributed according to 
tbeir different degrees of lack of acquaintanceship. 


THE WESTERN G1NEVRA. 


131 


“ I want to bid you good-by now, dears,” said the 
bride to the children. “You see there’ll be a great 
row when you go to bed, and to-morrow morning I ’ll 
have hardly time to kiss you. So while they’re 
getting supper ready, and he ’s talking to papa, I ’ll 
tell you each one of my old stories — no, you’re so 
old now, Edward, that I ’ll tell Amelia two stories, 
and you can listen if you want to. Then we ’ll have 
just as good a good-by as if it were to-morrow, and 
two — no, three sets of kisses.” 

“ But it ’s not so very far to St. Louis — so far as to 
make much of a fuss about ; and we ’ll come and see 
you, sha’n’t we ? ” said Edward stoutly. 

“ Yes, if I stay in St. Louis all the time ; ” and the 
poor girl told how often she would have to go down 
the river, and sometimes even across the ocean to 
Amsterdam. But presently she began on her stories, 
and the children at least were happy till they were 
all called to supper. 

And then, to the surprise of the porter, the splendid 
Mr. De Alcantara took out a dried-up little woman 
whom he had hardly noticed, while Mr. Bryan and 
the bride filled up the table. 

And such a supper as it was ! Though it was past 
eight, the cook gave them as solid a first course as 
his French education would allow him before he 
covered the little tables with salads and ices. 

To old Bryan’s surprise, Hester took a little of De 
Alcantara’s champagne — not as much as her cousins 
behind her; but he had never known her to take 
wine even in his flush times. Hot that he cared, — 


182 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


lie saw two full bottles opposite, — but yet he noticed 
it. Perhaps it was that which gave her rosier cheeks 
than she had had for a month ; and perhaps it was 
that which put her in such good spirits. 

“ I am quite relieved,” said she, as the last waiter 
went out. “ I really expected to see a wedding-cake 
come on after this luxury, and hear that Mr. Prayer- 
book was in the next car, ready to marry me or bury 
me.” 

“ If I had known you expected it,” said De Alcan- 
tara, “ I should have had it ready. And even now, 
I dare say, there is a priest on the train, my dear.” 

“ Oh no, indeed,” said Mrs. Goole, who took every- 
thing in earnest ; “ it will be far better for you to 
retire now with the children. It ’s nine o’clock, 
and just think how hard a day you’ll have to- 
morrow.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Hester. “ I think that it is 
never so hard to do a thing as to make up one’s mind 
to it ; and as for going to bed, I don’t care to. Per- 
haps Mr. De Alcantara has a pack of cards or so 
with him, and then you can have some whist, aunt, 
and we — Shall we have Sancho Pedro or euchre, 
your Grace ? ” 

“ Grace me no grace,” said De Alcantara, as cards 
were produced — to his credit, be it said, from a 
friend’s portmanteau. “I vote for euchre, if it be 
for four hands ; Pedro by itself is far from exciting.” 

“ Not when it’s played for love, your Grace ? ” said 
Hester. 

Who shall say how much the Don understood of 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


183 


the gambling terms of Great Britain ? He stumbled 
and said, “ Certainly, if you put it in that way.” 

But Hester would not, and so De Alcantara took 
the home-bridemaid, Lucy Lander, as his partner, and 
a “ son of St. Louis ” sat opposite Hester. 

“ I did n’t quite know what to think,” said Lucy 
Lander, afterward, to her sister. “ Sometimes I thought 
she had made up her mind to it, and then again I 
thought something awful would happen. You see, he 
kept calling her ‘ my dear,’ and she never blushed nor 
anything, except once, when she was leaning back, 
shading her face with her cards, and then her eyes 
sort of glittered ; it could hardly have been the light, 
you know. And once she had dealt, and the cards 
fell ace, two, three, four, and then Mr. Gardner, the 
St. Louis man, said, in a sort of hesitating way, ‘ That 
means kiss the dealer, you know ’ ; and then the duke 
took up her hand, which was lying on the table, but 
she- pulled it away, and said, ‘Wait — till to-morrow.’ 
That could have meant anything, you know.” 

And as Lucy sat and wondered, Hester sat and 
played, better than Lucy did, perhaps. She did not 
let De Alcantara kiss her hand, but she did laugh 
with him, and at him a little. She asked the St. 
Louis man if her hands were large enough to pass 
muster there, and then explained that her father took 
a Chicago paper. Indeed, so loud was the laughter 
of the gentlemen that Mrs. Goole kept looking round 
in an anxious way, and trying to catch Hester’s eye. 
But Hester kept her back resolutely turned, and Lucy 
would not understand any telegrams from the cha- 


184 


THE WESTERN G1NEVRA. 


peron ; so when Mrs. Goole found, to her joy, that it 
was eleven, she broke up the somewhat shaky whist- 
table, and spoke to Hester. 

“ My dear,” said she, “ it is really too late for any 
one to stay up any longer. My girls must go, and 
you too.” 

So Hester jumped up, kissed her father good-night, 
and bade an revoir to De Alcantara. Then she turned 
to section six, directed by the obsequious John. 

“ Wait,” said De Alcantara, “ I have a surprise for 
you;” and he led her to number nine, where her 
immense Saratoga stood on the sofa. “ If you need 
anything,” said he, “you yourself have been careful 
that you will find it here.” And he kissed his hand 
and walked forward. As Mr. Bryan was following, 
Mrs. Goole stopped him. Looking round to see that 
Hester had disappeared, she said, — 

“Fergus, that girl of yours doesn’t mean to be 
married 4o-morrow .” 

“ How do you know that ? ” said old Bryan. 

“ I can see it ; I ’ve been watching her,” said Mrs. 
Goole. “ You see that you have the forward section ; 
I have the rear one. She won’t pass me in the night, 
whatever she does at your end.” 

“Do you mean to sit up all night?” said poor 
Bryan. 

“ Of course I do, fool ! ” said his tender sister, “ and 
that you shall sit up all night, too. If you don’t, 
there ’ll be no wedding to-morrow.” 

“ Well,” said Bryan, as his sister left him. 

He thought it over with a cigar on the front plat* 


THE WESTERN OINEVRA. 185 

form, and decided that his sister was right. So he 
worked his way hack to her section, and found her 
there, sitting on the edge of the berth, as grim as a 
sentinel at Pompeii. 

“ I ’ll do it,” said he. 

“ You ’d better,” said she. 

And so all night he sat on the edge of his berth 
and tried to read, and then took another cigar on the 
platform, and then back and forth, till his cigars were 
gone ; hut not a wink of sleep passed his eyes that 
night. 

As for Mrs. Goole, who shall say what passed in 
her vigils ? Certain she was that on that night 
no one passed her but the two conductors and one 
brakeman. She was once startled at Chimborazo as 
a new black face appeared ; but it was explained that 
there was a change of porters, and whether Mungo or 
John it mattered little to her. 

And so morning came. No, it is no business of 
mine to tell who slept and who did not ; who dreamed, 
or what the dreams portended. Sunrise is sure, or 
well-nigh sure ; and even in a sleeping-car morning 
comes. Mrs. Goole looked a little more scraggy and 
haggard than usual. The bridemaids did their best, 
in the way of toilet, in their somewhat limited dress- 
ing-room. Baltasar was radiant in a fresh paper col- 
lar, — the utmost that even wealth like his could 
produce, as one travelled forty miles an hour, on the 
morning of one’s wedding-day. Mungo, the portei, 
“ made up ” the several sections one after another. 
From beds they became elegant sofas again, and only 


186 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


section six, Hester’s section, was intact. Its heavy 
curtains hung as at midnight, secured half-way down, 
as one might see, by a heavy brooch which Baltasar 
himself had given her. 

“ Let her sleep,” said Lucy Lander. “ Perhaps she 
did not sleep w T ell at first. I did not.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Goole grimly ; “ let her sleep. 
I never can sleep in these things. I sat up all night 
without a wink.” 

“ Oh, yes, let her sleep,” said her father ; and so 
they dashed on. Eight o’clock passed, half-past eight, 
nine o’clock, and yet no sign from number six. 

Meanwhile obsequious waiters came in from the 
kitchen-car. The breakfast would be spoiled, — one 
breakfast had been spoiled already. De Alcantara 
consulted with old Bryan. 

“ Lucy,” said old Bryan at last to Lucy Lander, 
“ you must wake her. You girls will faint without 
your coffee. And in half an hour more there will be 
no breakfast.” 

Lucy assented, a little unwillingly, went to number 
six, withdrew the brooch, and put her head inside the 
curtains, and then — a shriek from Lucy. She flung 
the curtains back, and -no Hester was there ! 

What was worse, no Hester had been there. The 
compartment had not been “ made up,” it would 
seem. Here were the two sofas, here was the Wreck 
of the Grosvenor, here was a faded nosegay, just as 
they had left them when they fell to playing euchre. 
But here was no Hester Bryan. Where was the 
girl ? What had she done with herself ? 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA . 


187 


De Alcantara turned on Mrs. Goole like a wild 
creature. He was ready to throttle her in his rage. 
“ This is some confounded joke of yours, ma’am l ” 
But no ; she was no such actress as to feign that dis- 
may and horror. 

“ It is he,” she shrieked, pointing at her speechless 
brother, “ it is he ! He fell asleep, and the minx 
passed him at his door.” 

Ho. Old Bryan was no such fool as to sleep at his 
post. “ Sartin ” he had not slept a wink since this 
porter came upon the train at Chimborazo. Porter 
and brakemen were alike confident that no one had 
left the car at either door. The brakemen testified 
for the whole time. The porter was certain after 
Chimborazo. 

Then the window of number six was examined, — 
a double window, and stuck fast with new varnish. 
Everyone remembered that they could not start it 
the day before, when Hester tried to throw out a 
banana-peel. And if she had opened both windows, 
not Bebecca of York herself could have closed them 
after her, poised upon nothing, and the train rushing 
underneath at the rate of forty miles. 

Erom section nine, however, which had not been 
made up, and of which the windows were ajar, Miriam 
Kuh, one of the St. Louis bridemaids, produced a 
handkerchief. It had lain on the top of the Saratoga 
trunk. It was Hester’s handkerchief, — one of the 
trousseau handkerchiefs, — and tied in a close knot 
was the engagement-ring Baltasar de Alcantara had 
given her. Those windows — the windows of sec- 


188 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


tion nine — were ajar. But that proved nothing. 
Baltasar himself said he started those windows for 
more air after everyone was asleep. Besides, a hawk 
could not crowd out of those cracks ; and if Hester had 
opened them further, how did she close them again ? 

All the same the porter and the brakemen were 
sure she had flung herself from number nine — most 
likely when they were crossing “the bridge.” The 
brakeman offered confidentially to show any man for 
five dollars how it could be done. 

Old Bryan was sure Mrs. Goole had slept on her post. 
Mrs. Goole was sure old Bryan had slept on his. 

Baltasar de Alcantara was mad with rage, and the 
bridemaids were faint with hunger. Miss Kuh gave 
him the ring and handkerchief, and he flung both out 
of the open window. 

The groomsmen stole forward into the kitchen and 
ate cold chops and flattened omelets. Some cold 
coffee was smuggled back to the bridemaids. 

And so the express-train arrived at St. Louis, and 
the loafers at the station watched the arrival of the 
“ special bridal-car/’ and no bride emerged therefrom ! 
only some very sick bridemaids, some very cross 
groomsmen, a disgusted bridegroom, an angry father 
and a frightened aunt, and the gigantic Saratoga trunk. 

“ Where to ? ” asked the porters, who staggered 
under the trunk. 

“ Nowhere,” answered De Alcantara, with a useless 
oath. “ Leave it in your baggage-room till it is called 
for.” 

And he went his way. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


189 


CHAPTER III. 

CAUGHT AND TOLD. 

Yet there was a wedding after all ! The sexton 
and organist at St. Jude’s had not been summoned 
for nothing, nor the parsons. It was not in vain 
that Ax, Kidder, & Co. had spread a whole piece 
of Brussels carpet across the wide pavement of Elev- 
enth Street, from the curb-stone up the church-steps 
into the very porch. 

For, as Baltasar de Alcantara left the Central Sta- 
tion, just as he was stepping into the elegant coupe 
which awaited him, a wild, foreign-looking woman, 
with a little child in her arms, sprang across his way. 

“ Take your baby to your wedding,” the wild crea- 
ture cried, crazy with excitement. 

Baltasar de Alcantara stopped a full minute with- 
out speech, looking at her. Then he laughed grimly. 
“Hold your jaw,” he said. “You’re just in time. 
You’ll do. Stop your howling. Go dress yourself 
decently in a travelling dress, and be at the church 
at twelve, — not one minute late nor one minute 
early, — and, mind, a thick veil. Moses, go with 
her, and see that she is there.” 

And so he entered his coupe and rode to his hotel. 
And at noon his party passed up his aisle, and this 
Bohemian woman, led by Moses Gardner, walked up 
the other aisle. There was the least hitch in the 


190 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


service, as De Alcantara bade tbe minister substitute 
the name of Faris for Hester. But of the company 
assembled, not ten people knew that it was not the 
Ohio beauty who passed on De Alcantara’s arm from 
the chancel to the vestry. 

In the vestry, however, there was a different scene. 
Baltasar, black with rage, was still trying to be civil 
to the minister’s clerk, whom he found there with a 
book, waiting for the bridegroom’s signature. As he 
took the pen, from the side-door another gentleman 
entered, and, without giving the bridegroom time to 
write, said to him, “ You will please come with me, 
sir.” 

“ And who are you ? ” sgid De Alcantara, with 
another useless oath. 

“ You know me very well. I could have arrested 
you upstairs, but I am good-natured. I have the 
governor’s warrant to deliver you to this gentleman, 
who arrived from London this morning. He repre- 
sents the chief of police there. You are to answer 
in London for receiving Lady Eustace’s diamonds. 
We have been waiting for you since Tuesday, but 
this gentleman only arrived this morning.” 

De Alcantara turned speechless upon the other, 
who, with the well-trained civility of an officer of 
high rank in the English police, hardly smiled. But 
the two recognized each other at a glance. De Al- 
cantara had known the other long before. And even 
he felt that rage and oaths were useless. 

“No,” he said, as the other offered handcuffs; “pa- 
role d’Jwnneur” But the handcuffs were put on. 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


191 


And the officers declined his civil offer of his own 
coup4. 

On the registry of St. Jude’s Church there is one 
certificate which lacks the signature of the bride- 
groom and the bride. 

In the state-prison at Amsterdam, prisoner No. 57, 
in Corridor D, is sentenced to hard labor for fourteen 
years. He is the Duke de Alcantara, without his 
mustache, and with very little of the rest of his hair. 
The London authorities gave him up to the Dutch, 
when they found that these last had the heaviest 
charges against him. 

De Alcantara had known that the United States 
had no extradition treaty with Holland, but he had 
not rightly judged the ingenuity of the Dutch police. 

Whoever else was at this wedding, old Bryan was 
not there, nor was Mrs. Goole. But thanks to the 
enterprise of the evening press of St. Louis, old Bryan 
learned, before five o’clock, where his son-in-law that 
was to be was spending his honeymoon. So did 
Mrs. Goole. 

She waited on her brother to ask where she should 
go next. He hade her go home, and never let him 
see her face again. Nor did she, so far as I know. 

Bor him, the poor “ old ” man — one can hut pity 
him — took a return ticket to Blunt Axe, which is 
the station nearest to the bridge. There must be 
some watchman at the bridge, and perhaps he would 
know something. At the Central Station the obse- 
quious Pullman’s porter met him. 


192 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA. 


“ Cleopatra, sir ? Have your choice of berths, sir. 
Going home empty, sir.” 

So little did the porter remember the haggard man. 
Old Bryan did not reply. He shuffled by the porter. 
But the question reminded him of the Saratoga 
trunk, and after a moment’s doubt he went to claim 
it. 

“Ho, sir. Bring the check, sir. Ho baggage given 
here, sir, without the checks.” Poor old man, he 
could even see the trunk. But the check, most 
likely, was in De Alcantara’s pocket. He tried to 
explain. 

“Ho use talking, sir. You keep this gentleman 
waiting. Bring the check.” And all poor old Bryan 
could do was to select a seat in the car most distant 
from that fatal Cleopatra. The Pullman porter could 
enlist but three passengers for her, — Lucy Lander 
and the frightened Bryan children. 

Ho ! it was morning before they had any compan- 
ions to whom to tell dreams or adventures. But, 
early in the morning, the train stops at Chimborazo. 
Poor old Bryan had left it in the night at Blunt Axe, 
and was even then scanning the rails of the fatal 
bridge and peering down into the river. Was this 
blood or iron-rust ? Was yonder white gleam a bit 
of his child’s clothing ? 

The train stops at Chimborazo. And Lucy Lander 
and the children are not to be longer alone. Horace 
Kay enters. Jane Forsyth enters. And here are Fanny 
and Alice and Emma — all the girls — and Walter 
and Siegfried and James — all the boys. We change 


THE WESTERN GINEVRA . 


193 


porters. Here comes John, the hoy we started with 
on the wedding journey. 

Scree ! Scree ! “ All aboard ! ” The train dashes 

away. 

“John, you make up six,” says Horace, to the 
amazement of all the others ; and Horace stands by as 
John unbolts the upper berth and lets it down. 

And there, as fresh as a rose, as if she were just 
waking from happy dreams — there lies, there smiles, 
our Hester ! Yes, it is she. She rises on her elbow, 
she jumps into Horace’s arms. Fairly before all these 
people — are they not friends, and true friends ? — 
he kisses her, and she kisses him. 

“ Did you sleep well, my darling ? ” 

“ I believe — well, I believe it has not seemed 
long. Yes, I must have slept sometimes.” 

And Horace slipped the old engagement-ring upon 
the naked finger. 

“You may bring in breakfast, John.” 

And this time the breakfast was hot, the appetites 
were sure, and, without champagne, the party was 
merry. 

Lucy Lander told the fate of Baltasar. Jane For- 
syth asked where the Saratoga trunk was, and Hester 
produced the check from her own pocket. 

At the crossing at New Dutzow the Cleopatra was 
detached from the express-train, and, to the marvel 
of waiting Buckeye boys, passed up on the virgin rails 
of the Scioto Yalley Line, unaccustomed to such won- 
ders. A special engine was waiting. A short hour 
brought the merry party to Kiowa Centre. There 
13 




194 


THE WESTERN G1NEVRA. 


was Horace’s buggy, there were carriages galore, and 
a more modest procession than that of yesterday took 
them to the Methodist meeting-house. 

And there Asbury Perham, who told me the end 
of the story, asked Horace Pay if he would have this 
woman to be his wedded wife. And he said, “ I will.” 

And there the existence of Hester Bryan, my pretty 
friend, under that particular name which she had 
borne from her infancy, ended. 


STORIES OF TRAYEL. 

No. III. 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


"VrES, Mr. Keesler told me the story, virtually in 
confession. It is a queer story, and I was some- 
what at loss as to the counsel I was to give him. So 
I take the gentle reader into my confidence and his. 
I may as well say, as I begin, that it was not in 
Boston or in Brooklyn or- in New York that this 
happened. The place was a sea-board town, where 
most of the people lived in a pretty suburb, but came 
into the old compact city for, their work and for their 
amusements. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PAINT-SHOP. 

“ It all began with the paint-shop,” he said. 

I knew that “the dumb man’s borders still increase,” 
so I asked no question what the paint-shop was, and 
by listening I learned. 

“The paint-shop was in the garden of the little 
house Bertha and I had hired just after Elaine was 
born. When the agent gave me the keys, he said, 
‘There is a paint-shop in the garden, but you can 
make that useful for something.’ ” 


196 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


So, indeed, it proved. Max Keesler and Bertha 
Keesler did make the paint-shop good for something, 
as you shall see, if you dare keep on with the story. 
But he never thought of it at the beginning. 

Max had married Bertha, prudently or imprudently, 
as you may think — prudently, I think — just be- 
cause he loved her and she loved him. They were 
not quite penniless ; they were not at all penniless. 
He had two or three thousand dollars in the savings- 
bank, and she had rather more in bonds. Max had a 
good berth, the day he was married, in a piano-forte 
factory. He earned his twenty-five dollars a week, 
with a good chance to earn more. I do not think 
they were imprudent at all. 

But while they were on their wedding journey a 
panic began. Max always remembered afterward that 
he read of the first gust of misfortune in a Tribune 
which he bought in the train as they came from 
Niagara. That was the first gust, but by no means 
the last. The last ? I should think not. Gusts, 
blasts, hurricanes, and typhoons came. Half the bus- 
iness establishments of the country went to the bottom 
of the oceans they were cruising on, and among the „ 
rest poor Max’s own piano-forte factory. Nay, it 
seemed to Max that every other piano factory he ever 
heard of had gone under, or was likely to. 

So that when the little Elaine was born, and they 
wanted to leave the boarding-house, which they hated. 
Max was out of work, and they were as economical as 
they could be. Still they determined that they would 
hire rooms somewhere, and keep house. Bertha knew 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


197 


she could manage better than that odious Mrs. 
Odonto, who polished their teeth so with her horrid 
steaks. And it ended in their hiring — dog-cheap, 
because times were so bad — this tumble-down old 
house on the corner of Madison Avenue and Sprigg 
Court, which, as you know, had a paint-shop in the 
garden. 

“ The truth is,” said the agent, “ that the Cosmo- 
politan Railway Company, when they began, hired the 
barn and fitted it up for a paint-shop. They would 
leave their cars there, to dry. But that was long ago. 
And no one has wanted to hire these premises till 
now. You don’t happen to know a painter you could 
underlet the shop to ? ” 

No. Max knew no such painter. But he figured 
to himself better times, when they would fit up the 
paint-shop as a sort of summer music-room. And 
it was pleasant to know that they had something to 
let, if only any one wanted to hire. 

All the same, as he said to me when he began his 
confession, all his guilt, if it were guilt, all the crime, 
where there was crime, was “ along of the paint-shop,” 
as the reader, if he be patient, shall see. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE WOMAN BEGAN IT. 

“ Did you ever notice,” said Bertha, at tea one night, 
“that the rails still run into the paint-shop, just as 
when the railway people painted their cars there ? ” 


198 


MAX KEESLER'S IIORSE-CAR. 


"Why, of course I liave,” said Max, surprised. 
“ They took up the frog in the avenue, but the old 
rails were not worth taking.” 

“*I suppose so,” said Bertha meekly. “ I have been 
thinking,” she said — “I have been wondering whether 
— don’t you think we might — just while business is 
so dull, you know — have a car of our own ? ” 

“ Have a car of our own ! ” screamed Max, dropping 
knife and fork this time. “What do we want of a 
car?” 

“We don’t want it,” said Bertha, “of course, unless 
other people want it.” But then she went on to ex- 
plain that, no matter how hard were the times, she 
observed that the street-cars were always full. People 
had to stand in them at night coming out from the thea- 
tre, although that did not seem right or fair. Bertha 
had measured the paint-shop, and had found that there 
was room enough in it not only for a car, but for two 
horses. The old loft of its early days, when it served 
for a stable, was left as it was made, big enough for a 
ton or two of hay. It had occurred to Bertha that, as 
Max had nothing else to do, he might buy two horses 
and a street-car, and earn a penny or two for Elaine’s 
milk and oatmeal by running an opposition to the 
Cosmopolitan Company. 

Max loved Bertha, and he greatly respected her 
judgment. But he was human, and therefore he pooh- 
poohed her plan as absurd — really because it was 
hers. All the same, after supper he went out and 
looked at the paint-shop ; and the next morning he 
climbed into the loft and measured it. Poor Max, he 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


199 


had little enough else to do. He sawed and split all 
the wood. He made the fire. He would fain have 
cooked the dinner and set the table, hut Bertha would 
not let him. He had nothing else to do. Hot a piano- 
forte hammer was there to cover between the Penob- 
scot and the Pacific, and the panic seemed more 
frightened and more frightful than ever. So Max did 
not waste any valuable time, though he did spend an 
hour in the old hay-loft. 

And at dinner it was he who took up the subject. 

“ Who did you suppose would drive the horse-car, 
Bertha ? ” 

“ Why, I had thought you would. I knew you were 
on their list for a driver’s place at the Cosmopolitan 
office. And I thought, if you had your own car, you 
could be your own driver.” 

“ And who was to be conductor ? ” 

Then Bertha shut the window, for fear the little 
birds should hear. And she said that it had made so 
much fun at Christmas when she dressed up in Floyd’s 
ulster, and that even Max’s father had not known her, 
that she had been thinking that if they only made 
evening trips, when it was dark, if Max always drove 
she should not be afraid to be conductor herself. 

Oh, how Max screamed! He laughed, and he 
laughed, as if he had never laughed before. Then he 
stopped for a minute for breath, and then he laughed 
again. At first Bertha laughed, and then she was 
frightened, and then she was provoked. 

“ Why should I not be conductor ? If you laugh 
any more, I shall offer myself to the company to- 


200 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


morrow, and I will wear a crimson satin frock, and a 
hat with an ostrich feather. Then we will see which 
car is the fullest. Cannot I hand a gentleman in 
quite as well as this assiduous squinting man who 
hands me in ? Can’t I make change as fast as that 
man who gave you a fifteen-cent bill for a quarter ? 
I will not be laughed at, though I am a woman.” 

So Max stopped laughing for a minute. But he 
had laughed so much that they discussed no more de- 
tails that day. Any allusion to fares or platforms or 
the rail was enough to make his face redden, and to 
compel him to crowd his handkerchief into his mouth. 
And Bertha would not encourage him by laughing 
when he did. 


CHAPTER III. 

A LODGMENT MADE. 

All the same a lodgment had been made. The idea 
had been suggested to Max, and the little seed Bertha 
had planted did not die. Poor fellow ! his name was 
on the lists of all the railway companies, and so were 
the names of five thousand other fellows out of 
work. His name was also on the postmaster’s list of 
applicants for the next vacancy among clerks or 
carriers. The postmaster was amazingly civil ; asked 
Max to write the name himself, so that there need be 
no mistake. So Max observed that his name came at 
the bottom of the seventh long column of K’s, there 
being so many men whose name began with K who 


MAX KEESLER 3 S HORSE-CAR. 


201 


Deeded employment. He calculated roughly, from 
the size of the book, that about seven thousand men 
had applied before him. Then he went to the mayor 
to see if he could not be a policeman, or a messenger 
at the City Hall. He had first-rate introductions. The 
mayor’s clerk was very civil, but he said that they 
had about eight thousand people waiting there. So 
Max’s chances of serving the public seemed but poor. 

And thus it was that he haunted the paint-shop 
more and more. At first he had no thought, of course, 
of anything so absurd as Bertha’s plan ; still, all the 
same, it would do no harm to think it over, and the 
thinking part lie did, and he did it carefully and well. 
He went through all the experiences of driver and of 
conductor in his imagination. He made it his duty to 
ride on the front platform always as he went to town 
or returned, that he might catch the trick of the 
brakes, and be sure of the grades. Nay, he learned 
the price of cars, and found from what factories the 
Cosmopolitan was supplied. 

When a man thus plans out a course of life, though 
he thinks he does it only for fun, it becomes all the 
more easy to step into. it. If he has learned the part, 
he is much more likely to play it than he would be 
if he had it still to learn. And as times grew harder 
and harder, when at last Max had to make a second 
hole in his bank deposit, and a pretty large one too, 
tired with enforced idleness, as he had never been by 
cheerful work, Max took one of those steps which can- 
not be retraced. He wrote, what he used to call 
afterward “ the fatal letter,” on which all this story 
hangs. 


202 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


But this was not till he had had a careful and lov- 
ing talk with Bertha. He loved her more than ever, 
and he valued her more than ever, after this year and 
a half of married life. And Bertha could have said 
the like of Max. There w r as nothing she would not 
do for him, and she knew that there was nothing he 
would not do for her. 

Max told her at last that he felt discouraged. 
Everybody said, “ Go West ” : but what could he do 
at the West ? He did not know how to plough, and 
she did not know how to make cheese. Ho. He said 
he had laughed at her plan of the street-car at first, 
but he believed there was “money in it.” They 
would have to spend most of their little capital in 
the outfit. A span of horses and a car could not be 
had for nothing. But once bought, they were prop- 
erty. He did not think they had better try to run 
all day. That would tire Bertha, and the horses could 
not stand it. But if she were serious, he would try. 
He would write to Newcastle, to a firm of builders 
whom the Cosmopolitan had sometimes employed. 
He would look out for a span of horses and proper 
harness. If she would have her dress ready, they 
could at least try when the car arrived. If she did 
not like it, he would make some appeal to the build- 
ers to take the car off his hands. But, in short, lie- 
said, if she did not really, in her heart, favor the plan, 
he would never speak of it nor think of it again. 

He w T as serious enough now. There was no laugh- 
ing nor treating poor Bertha’s plan as a joke. And 
she replied as seriously. They had always wished, she 


MAX KEE SLEWS HORSE-CAR. 


203 


said, that his work was what she could help in. Here 
seemed to he a way to earn money, and, for that matter, 
to serve mankind too, where they could work together. 
True, the custom had been to carry on this business 
by large companies. But she saw no reason why a 
man and his wife should not carry it on as well as 
forty thousand shareholders. If it took her away 
from the baby, it would be different. But if they 
only went out evenings, after the little girl had gone 
to sleep, why, she always slept soundly till her father 
and mother came to bed, and Bertha would feel quite 
brave about leaving her. 

So, as I said, the lodgment was made. After this 
serious talk, Max wrote the fatal letter to the car- 
builders. 

It was in these words : — 

“ 351 Madison Avenue, April 1 , 1875 . 

“ Dear Sir, — Can you furnish one more car, same 
pattern and style as the last furnished for the Cos- 
mopolitan Company ? The sooner the better. You 
will be expected to deliver on the Delaware Bay 
Line of steamers for this port, and forward invoice 
to this address. 

“ Respectfully yours, 

“Max Keesler.” 

To which came an answer that fortunately they 
had on hand such a car as he described, and that as 
soon as the last coat of paint and lettering could be 
put on, it should be shipped. Max wrote by return 
mail to order the words “Madison Avenue Line” 
painted on each side, to direct that the color should 


204 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


be the same as that of the Madison Avenue Line, and 
he inclosed a banker’s draft for the amount. Never 
had the Newcastle builders been better pleased with 
the promptness of the pay. 

And everything happened, as Max told me after- 
ward, to favor his plans. The Bichard Penn steamer 
chose to arrive just before seven o’clock in the after- 
noon. Max was waiting at the pier with his span of 
horses. The car could be seen prominent in the deck 
cargo. The clerks and agents were only too glad to 
be rid of her at once. Quarter of an hour did not 
pass before some sturdy Irishmen had run her upon 
the branch-rails which went down the pier. The 
horses behaved better than he dared expect. When 
he brought his new treasure in triumph into the paint- 
shop, and found Bertha, eager with excitement, wait- 
ing for him there, he told her that he had rejected, he 
believed, a hundred passengers by screaming, “ Next 
car — next car!” as he had driven up through the 
city into the more sequestered avenue. 

It was too late to go back, had they doubted. 

But they did not doubt. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

AN EXPERIMENT. 

Bertha heard with delight, listened eagerly, and 
sympathized heartily. When Max had told his tale, 
he went round to his handsome span of horses to take 
off their collars and headstalls. 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


205 


“ Stop a minute, Max,” said Bertha, who held his 
lantern ; u stop a minute, — if you are not too tired. 
We shall do nothing else to-night. Suppose we just 
try one trip, — just for fun.” 

“ But you are not ready ” 

“ I ? I will be ready as soon as you are. See ! ” 
and she vanished into the harness-room. Max hardly 
believed her ; but he did unfasten his horses, a little 
clumsily, led them round to the other end of the 
car, and hooked on the heavy cross-bar ; ran open the 
sliding-door of the shop, and looked out upon the 
stars ; Went to the back platform and loosened 
the brake there ; and then, as he stepped down, 
he met a spruce, wide-awake young fellow, who said, 
“ Hurry up, driver ! Time ’s up ; can’t wait all night 
here.” 

“ Bertha, my child,” cried Max, “ your own mother 
would not know you ! ” 

“ As to that, we ’ll see,” said the young man. “ All 
aboard ! ” and she struck the bell above her head with 
the most knowing air. 

The trouble was, as Max said afterward, to run the 
wheels into the street-rails when no one was passing. 
But he had, with a good deal of care, wedged in some 
bits of iron, which made an inclined plane on the out- 
side of the outer rail, and as the car was always light 
when he started, the horses and he together soon 
caught the knack. A minute, and they were free of 
the road, bowling aloug at the regulation pace of seven 
miles an hour. Bor their trip down and back they 
were quite free from official criticism. The office was 


206 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


at the upper end of Madison Avenue, a mile or more 
above them. 

And never did young lover by the side of his mis- 
tress drive his span of bays through Central Park 
with more delight than Max drove Bertha in that 
glad minute when she stood on the platform by his 
side, before they were hailed by their first passenger. 

Bertha will remember that old woman to her dying 
day, — an old Irishwoman, who, as Bertha believes, 
kept a boarding-house. She had with her an immense 
basket, redolent of cabbage, and of who shall say what 
else. No professional conductor would have let her 
carry that hundredweight of freight without an extra 
fare. But Bertha was so frightened as she asked for 
one fare that she had no thought of claiming two. 
Bertha made a pretext of helping the woman with the 
basket, knowing, as she did so, that it would have 
anchored her to the roadway had she been left alone 
with it. When basket and owner were well inside 
the car, Bertha put her head into the doorway, and 
said, as gruffly as she knew how, “ You must put that 
basket with the driver if you expect us to take it.” 
The poor woman was used to being bullied more 
severely, and meekly obeyed. 

Next three giggling girls with two admirers, glorious 
in white satin neckties, all on their way to the 
Gayety, all talking together with their highkeyed 
voices, arid each of the three determined not to be 
the one neglected in the attentions of the two. Great 
frolic, laughter, screaming on the high key, and rush- 
ing back and forward, before they determined whether 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


207 


they would sit all on one side, or three on one seat 
and two on the other, and in the latter case, which 
girl should be the third. Eiot and screaming not 
much silenced by the entrance of three old gentlemen, 
also in white neckties, on their way to the Thursday 
Club. Two paper-hangers, late from an extra job, have 
to place their pails on the front platform, and stand 
there with their long boards. Next comes a fright- 
ened shop-girl from the country. It is her first ex- 
periment in going down to the city at night, and long 
ago she wished she had not tried it. But Bertha 
hands her in so pleasantly, and insists on making a 
seat for her so bravely that the poor, pale thing looks 
all gratitude as she cuddles back in the corner and 
makes herself as small as she can. 

And at last there are so many that poor Bertha 
must force herself to go through the car and take up 
the fares. Nor is it so hard as it seemed. Some give 
unconsciously. Some are surprised, and dig out the 
money from deep recesses, as if it were an outrage that 
they should be expected to pay. One old gentleman 
even demands change for five dollars. But Bertha 
was all ready for that. She is more ready for the hard 
exigencies than she is for the easy ones. And when 
she comes to the front platform she taps the two paper- 
hangers quite bravely, and has quite a gruff voice 
as she bids Max to be sure and stop at the South 
Kensington crossing before they come to the gutter. 

By and by, as they come nearer the city proper, 
the car and platforms fill up. Bertha pushes through 
on her second and third tour of collection, and at last. 


208 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR . 


at a stop, runs forward to her husband. “ Be sure you 
stop at Highgate. I shall be inside. But all these 
theatre people leave there.” This aloud, and then she 
leaned down to whisper, “ There are three men smok- 
ing on the platform, and they make me sick. What 
can I do ? ” 

“ I should like to thrash them,” said Max, in 
a rage. “But you must bully them yourself. I’ll 
stand by you, and will call an officer if there is a 
row.” 

Bertha gained new life, worked steadily hack through 
the crowded passage, opened the door, and spoke : — 

“ Smoking not permitted, gentlemen. Lady faint 
inside.” 

Without a whisper the three men emptied their 
pipes and pocketed them, and Bertha had won her 
first great victory. The second never costs so much 
as the first, nor is it ever so remembered. 

“ Could you know — should you know — can you 
tell — about when we come to 97 Van Tromp Street, 
and would you kindly stop there ? ” This was the 
entreating request of the poor, frightened shop-girl. 

“ Certainly, ma’am ; you said 97 ? ” said Bertha, as 
grimly as before to the boarding-house keeper, but 
determined that that girl should go right, even if the 
car stopped an hour. 

And when they came to 97, Bertha handed her 
down, and led her to the door, and pealed at the bell 
as if she had been a princess. “ Oh, I thank you so !” 
said the poor, shrinking girl. “And please tell me 
when your car goes back. I will be all ready.” 


MAX KEESLER' S HORSE-CAR. 


209 


This, as Bertha says to this hour, was the greatest 
compliment of her life. 

They came home light, for it was in that dead hour 
before the theatres and concerts are pouring out their 
thousands. Bertha did not forget 97 Van Tromp 
Street, and her poor little ewe-lamb was waiting at 
the door as the great car stopped itself, uncalled. As 
they approached Sprigg Court there was but one pas- 
senger left, — a poor tired newspaper man, going out 
to Station 11 to see who had cut his throat in- that 
precinct, or what child had been run over. 

“Far as we go,” said Bertha, in her gruffest 
voice. 

And the poor fellow, who was asleep, tumbled out, 
not knowing where he was, and unable, of course, to 
express his surprise. 


CHAPTER V. 

REGULAR WORK. 

When they were once home, both of them were 
too much excited and quite too tired to think of a 
- second round trip, even to catch the theatres. Glad 
enough w T ere they to shut the paint-shop. Bertha 
held the lantern while Max rubbed down the horses 
and put them up for the night. Then she disappeared 
in the harness-room, re-appeared in her own character 
in a time incredibly short, and ran into the house at 
once to see how the baby was. 

Baby ! Dear little chit, she had not moved a hand 
14 


210 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


since her mother left her. So, with a light heart, 
Bertha joined her husband in the kitchen. 

They counted up the money, and subtracted what 
Bertha had started with. Happily for them, the 
Cosmopolitan had not then introduced the bell-punch, 
nor did it ever, so far as I know, introduce the bother 
of tickets. Max and Bertha followed in all regards 
the customs of the Cosmopolitan. The freight down 
town had been very large, the freight up had been 
light ; but they were seven dollars and fifty-five cents 
richer than they were three hours before. 

“ How much money it looks like ! ” said Bertha. 

Even with that old man’s five-dollar bill, it makes 
so big a pile. I never saw two dollars in nickels 
before.” 

“ I hope you may see a great many before you are 
done, my sweet,” said Max cheerily. 

“ But is it fairly ours ? Are you troubled about 
that?” 

“I am sure we have worked for it,” said Max, 
laughing. “ I know I never worked so hard in my 
life, and I do not believe you ever did.” 

“Ho : if that were all.” 

“ And is it not all ? The car is bought with your 
money. The horses and their hay were bought with 
mine.” 

“ But the rails,” persisted Bertha, a little unfairly, 
as she had planned the whole. 

“ The rails,” said Max coolly, “ belong to the public. 
They are a part of the pavement of the street, as has 
been determined again and again. If I chose to have 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


211 


a coach built to run in the track, nobody could hinder 
me. This is my hackney-coach, and you and I are 
friends of the people.” 

So Bertha’s conscience was appeased, and they went 
happily to bed. 

The next morning Max came home in great glee. 
He had seen Mr. Federshall, his old foreman, who al- 
ways was cordial and sympathetic. He had told Mr. 
Federshall where he lived; that he had an old stable 
on the premises, and that, for a little, he was keeping 
a pair of horses there ; that he had no other regular 
employment. And Mr. Federshall, of his own accord, 
had asked him to keep his covered buggy. “ I have 
had to sell my horses long ago,” he said, laughing. 
And Max was to store the buggy, and take his pay in 
the use of it for nothing. 

So they might go to ride that living morning with 
the span, take the baby, and have no end of a 
“ good time.” 

A lovely day, and a lovely ride they had of it. 
The baby chirruped, and was delighted, and pretended 
to know cows when they were pointed out to her, 
as if, in fact, the poor wretch knew a cow from a 
smoke-stack. All the same, they enjoyed their new 
toy — and freedom. 

With this bright omen ‘‘regular work” began. 
But they soon found that as “ regular work ” meant 
two round trips every evening, they must not often 
take the horses out in the morning. As Max pointed 
out to Bertha, they had better hire a horse for three 
dollars and a half than lose one round trip. So, in 


212 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


tlie long run, they only treated themselves to a drive 
on *a birthday or other anniversary. 

A good deal of the work was a mere dragging grind, 
as is true of most w r ork. Bertha declared that it came 
by streaks. Some nights the passengers were all 
crazy: women would stop the car when they did not 
want to get out ; people would come rushing down 
side-streets to come on board, who found they wanted 
to be put out as soon as they had entered ; a sweet- 
faced little woman would discover, after she was well 
in, that she was going into town when she should 
be going out ; another would make a great row, and 
declare she had paid a fare, and afterward find that 
she had it in her glove. And all these things would 
happen on the same night. On another night every- 
thing would be serene, and the people as regular as if 
they were checker-men or other puppets. They would 
sit where they ought, stand where they should, enter 
at the right place, leave where they meant to ; and 
Bertha would have as little need to bother herself 
about them as about that dear little baby who was 
sleeping at home so sweetly. 

The night which she now looks back upon with 
most terror, perhaps, was the night when a director 
of the Cosmopolitan came on board. She was fright- 
ened almost beyond words when the tidy old gen- 
tleman nodded and smiled with a patronizing air. 
Did he mean to insult her ? She just turned to 
the passenger opposite, and then, with her utmost 
courage, she turned to him, and said firmly, “Fare, 
sir.” 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


213 


“Fare? Why, my man, I am a director. I am 
Mr. Siebenhold.” 

The passengers all grinned, as if to say not to 
know Mr. Siebenhold was to argue one’s self un- 
known. Bertha had to collect all her powers. What 
would the stifFest martinet do in her place? She 
gulped down her terror. 

“ I can’t help that, sir. If you are a director, you 
have a director’s pass, I suppose ? ” 

Magnificent instinct of a woman! For Bertha 
had never heard of a director’s pass nor contem- 
plated the exigency. 

“ Pass ? ” said the great man. “ Well, yes — pass ? 
I suppose I have.” And from the depths of an 
inside pocket a gigantic pocket-book appeared. From 
its depths, with just the least unnecessary display of 
greenbacks, a printed envelope appeared. From its 
depths a pink ticket, large and clean, appeared 
“ How will that do, my man ? ” 

For all Bertha could see, the pass might have beer 
in Sanskrit. Her eyes, indeed, were beginning tc 
brim over. But she walked to the light, looked 
at the pass, said “All right” as she gave it back, 
and took out her own note-book to enter the free 
passenger. 

“ You ’ve not been long on the line ? ” said the 
old gentleman fussily. 

“ Not very long, sir.” 

“ Well, my lad ” — more fussily — “ you have done 
perfectly right — perfectly. I hope all the conductors 
are as careful. I shall name you to Mr. Beal. What 
is your number ? ” 


214 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


Bertha pointed to her jaunty cap, and said u 537 ” 
at the same moment. The old gentleman took down 
the number, and did not forget his promise. 

The next day he talked to the superintendent an 
hour, to that worthy’s great disgust. When Mr. 
Siebenhold left the office at last, the superintendent 
said to the cashier, “ The old fool wanted f to recorffi 
mend No. 537.’ I did not tell him that we only have 
three hundred and thirty men.” 

So Bertha passed her worst trial, as she thought it 
then. But a harder test was in store. 


CHAPTER VI. 

YOUR UNCLE. 

The baby was growing to be no baby. She was 
big enough to run about the floor, and if they had a 
boiled chicken for dinner, the little girl sucked and 
even gnawed at the bones. The autumn had gone, and 
Bertha had a long winter ulster to do her cold work 
in, and Max a longer and a heavier one for his. Still, 
neither of them flinched. Max did not like his work 
as well as he liked covering piano-forte hammers, but 
he liked it better than nothing. And Bertha liked 
to be out of debt, and to see Max happy. So never 
did she ask him to drop a trip, and never did he ask 
her. 

It was a light trip one evening, for the weather 
w r as disagreeable, and unless the theatre filled them 
up, it would be a very poor evening’s work. As they 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


215 


went out of town nearly empty, Bertha came rushing 
out upon the front platform to Max, and said to him, 
in terror, “ Your uncle and aunt are on hoard ! ” 

« What?” 

“Your Uncle Stephen, from New Britain, and 
your aunt, and they have two of your old-fashioned 
German carpet-bags, two baskets and a bird-cage. 
They are coming to make us a visit. He asked me 
very carefully to leave them at the corner of Sprigg 
Court” 

“ Make us a visit ! ” cried Max, aghast. “ How can 
we run the car ? ” 

“I don’t know that,” said Bertha. “I should 
like to know first how they are to get into the 
house.” 

“ That, indeed,” said Max ; and, after a pause, 
“ You must manage it somehow.” 

That is what men always say to their wives when 
the puzzle is beyond their own solution. And Bertha 
managed it. Fortunately for her, the night was 
dark. The old uncle and aunt were quite out of 
their latitude, and they did n’t know their longitude* 
They were a good deal dazed by the unusual ex- 
perience of travel. They were very obedient when 
Bertha stopped the car a full square before she came 
to her own house, and said, — 

“You had better get out here. I will take your 
baskets and the cage.” This she did, and deposited 
all three of the bipeds on the sidewalk. She bade 
them “ Good evening ” even, and, when the old gen- 
tleman had at last put his somewhat cumbrous 


216 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


question, “ Could you kindly tell us on which corner 
Mr. Max Keesler lives ? ” the car was gone in the 
darkness. 

Short work that night as Bertha doffed her ulster 
and assumed her home costume. For Max, he only 
tethered the horses, and then ran into the house, 
lighted it, and waited. Bertha joined him, however, 
before his uncle appeared. And leaving her in her 
own parlor, the guilty Max put on his hat, walked 
down the avenue, and met his dazed relatives, so that 
he could help them and the canary-bird and the 
baskets to his own door. 

“ Come, Bertha, come ! ” he cried. “ Here is Uncle 
Stephen and my aunt ! ” 

“ Where did you drop from, dear aunt ? ” And the 
dear old lady explained how they had rung at the 
wrong door, how long the servant was in coming, 
and then how badly the servant understood their 
English. 

“ But how came you there at all ? ” persisted 
Bertha. 

“ Oh, the conductor left us at the wrong street.” 

“ At the wrong street ! ” cried Bertha. “ These 
conductors are so careless ! But this man must 
have done it on purpose. What looking man was 
he?” 

“ My dear child,” said her aunt, speaking in Ger- 
man, “ you must not blame him ; he was very young 
and very kind ; perhaps he was a new man, and did 
not know. He was very kind, and carried the bird 
himself to the sidewalk.” 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


217 


After this, mischievous Mistress Bertha did not 
dare say a word. 

But there was no second trip that evening. 

Nor the next evening. Nor the next. Nor the 
next. Nor for many evenings more. 

Max and Bertha took Uncle Stephen and their 
aunt to the little German play of the Turnverein ; 
they took them to the German opera, which, by good 
luck, came to town, but they did not go in Max’s car. 
Max took his aunt to ride one day, and another day 
he took Uncle Stephen, but not in his own car. 
The horses were eating their heads off, as he con- 
fessed to Bertha, but not a wisp of hay nor a grain 
of oats could he or she earn for them. One is glad to 
have his aunt and uncle come and see him. But how 
shall the pot boil if aunt and uncle cut off the channel 
through which the water flows to the pot, nay, block the 
wheels of the dray which brings the coal to the fire ? 

At last one fatal day Uncle Stephen, as he smoked 
his pipe, came out, as he was fond of doing, to the 
paint-shop to see Max rub down his horses. Nay, 
the old man walked out into the garden, threw out 
the lighted Tabak which he loved so well, threw off 
his coat, and with a wisp of straw rubbed down one 
horse himself. 

“I show you how,” he said. “The poor brute — 
you do not half groom him.” This in German. 

“Ah me !” Max replied. “We must groom them 
well. The proverb says, "When the horse is to be 
sold, his skin must shine.’ ” 


218 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR. 


“ Must lie be sold, then, my boy ? ” 

“ Ah me ! yes, he must be sold. He eats off his 
head. As the proverb says, ‘ If the man is hungry, 
the beast goes to the fair.’ ” 

“ Mein Gott ! ” said the old man, not irreverently ; 
“ it is indeed hard times.” 

“ Hard times,” said Max, “ or I would not sell my 
bays. But the proverb says, ‘ It is better to go afoot 
fat than to be starved and ride.’ ” 

“And what do these people pay you for storing 
this car here, my son ? ” 

“ Pay me ? They pay not a pfennig. But the 
proverb says, ‘ Better fill your house with cats than 
leave it empty.’ ” 

“Mein Gott! they should pay some rent,” said 
the old man. “ I see by the rail they use it some- 
times.” 

And Max said nothing. 

The next day the old man returned to the charge. 

“ My son Max,” he said, “ do this company keep 
their car here, and pay nothing ? ” 

“They pay nothing,” said Max. “The proverb 
says, * The rich miller did not know that the mill- 
boy was hungry.’ ” 

“My son Max, let us take out the car at night, and 
let us drive down town and back, and we will get 
some rent from them.” 

Guilty Max ! He started as if he were shot. 

“ Max, my son, do you drive the horses, and I will 
be the boy behind — what you call conductor.” 

Guilty Max ! His face was fire. He bent down 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


219 


and concealed himself behind the horse he was 
rubbing. 

“ What do you say, my son ? Shall I not make as 
good conductor as my little Bertha ? ” 

Then guilty Max knew that his uncle knew all. 
But indeed the old man had not suspected at the first. 
Only there had seemed to him something natural, 
which he could not understand, in the face of the 
handsome young conductor. But, as chance had 
ordered, — good luck, bad luck, let the reader say, — 
early the next morning; as he smoked his pipe before 
breakfast, he had walked into the paint-shop. Then 
he hadiStepped into the car. On the floor of the car 
he had found his wife’s handkerchief, the loss of 
which she had deplored, and evident traces of bird- 
seed from the cage. The old man was slow, but he 
was sure ; and a few days of rapt meditation on 
these observations had brought him out on a result 
not far from true. 

“ My son,” he said, after Max had made confession, 
“ if the business is all right, as you say, why do we 
not follow it in the daytime ? ” 

Max said that he did not like to expose Bertha to 
observation in the daytime. 

“ But, my son, why do you not expose me to ob- 
servation in the daytime ? If it is all right, I will 
go down town with you. I will go now.” 

Then Max said that, though it was all right accord- 
ing to the higher law, the local law had not yet been 
interpreted on this subject, and he was afraid the 
police would stop them. 


220 


MAX KEESLER'S HORSE-CAR . 


“ Ah, well, I understand,” said the old man. “ Let 
them stop us ; let us have one grand lawsuit, and let 
us settle it forever.” 

Then Max explained, further, that he had no money 
for a lawsuit, and that before the suit was settled he 
should be penniless. 

“Ah, well,” said Uncle Stephen, “and I — who 
have money enough — I never yet spent a kreutzer 
at law, and, God willing, I never will. But, my son, 
let me tell you. What we do, let us do in the light. 
At night let us play, let us go to the theatre, let us 
dance, let us sing. If this business is good business, 
let us do it by daylight. Come with me. Let us 
see your bureau man — what you call him — Ober- 
meister, surintendant. Come ! ” And he hauled guilty 
Max with him in a rival’s car to the down-town office 
of Mr. Beal, the superintendent. 

And then the End came. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE END. 

Max and his uncle entered the office, and were ushered 
into Mr. Beal’s private room. 

“ Be seated, gentlemen — one moment;” and in a 
moment the tired man of affairs turned, with that 
uninterested bow, as if he knew they had nothing 
of any import to say. 

But when Max, man fashion, held up his head 
and entered squarely on his story, Mr. Beal colored 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


221 


and was all attention. A minute more, and Mr. Beal 
rose and closed the door, that he might he sure they 
were not heard. Indeed, he listened eagerly, and 
yet as if he did not wish Max to be proved in the 
wrong. 

“ In short,” said Max, at the end, “ if what I have 
done is wrong, I have come to say that I do not want 
any fight with the company, and I should be glad to 
make amends.” 

Strange to say, the man of affairs hardly seemed 
to heed him. Mr. Beal was already in a brown 
study. 

“ Oh, yes, certainly. I am sure I am much obliged. 
I beg your pardon. Have you said all you wished 
to say ? ” 

“ Nothing more,” said Max, half offended. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Beal again. 

“ I came to beg yours,” said Max, just rising to the 
drollery of the position. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Beal once more, 
“ but — I have been afraid — of this thing ever since 
I was on the line. You say you do not want to fight 
with the company. Quite right, young man, quite 
right ! The company is friends with all the world, and 
wants no fighting.” 

But after this pacific beginning Mr. Beal went on 
to say that he was well aware, and that the directors 
were aware, that any man had a right to use their 
rails if he did not interfere with the public con- 
venience. He did not say, but Max was quick 
enough to see, that the fact that he and Bertha had 


222 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


used the rails for so long a time, and the company 
never, knew it, was itself evidence that the public had 
suffered no inconvenience. 

In an instant Max saw, and his uncle saw, that Mr. 
Beal was much more anxious to keep this fact from 
the public than he was to apprehend any offenders, if 
offenders they had been. 

“ Mr. Keesler, the press would make no end of fun 
of us if this thing was known.” 

This after a pause. 

“ Suppose, Mr. Keesler, you turn your stock over 
to us, at a fair valuation, and I give you the first 
berth I have as a driver? I am afraid I cannot 
engage your conductor.” 

This with a sick smile. Max was amazed. He 
came to be scolded. It seemed he was expected to 
offer terms. 

“ Frankly, Mr. Keesler, we had rather not have 
much public discussion as to the rights of individuals 
to put their cars on our rails. You seem to be tired 
of the business. What do you say ? ” 

Max made a very short answer. 

The truth was, he was sick to death of the business. 
In very little time he had named his price for 
the car, and as soon as it was named, Mr. Beal had 
agreed. 

“ But how shall I take possession ? ” said Mr. Beal. 
“ If I send one of my men for it, the story will be in 
the Herald wdthin three days.” 

“Trust me for that,” said Max. “Till you have 
your car you need not send your check.” 


MAX KEESLER’S HORSE-CAR. 


223 


The Cosmopolitan cars do not run after midnight. 
At one the next morning Max drew out the fatal 
truck upon the avenue, down to the top of the steep 
grade at De Kalb Street, braked up, and then took 
off his horses. Then, with the exquisite relief with 
which a soldier after his enlistment leaves his bar- 
racks, Max loosened the brake, jumped from the 
platform, and saw the car run from him into the 
night. 

The first morning driver on the Cosmopolitan, in 
the gray of the morning, met an empty car on the 
long causeway at Pitt’s Dock. He coupled it to his 
own car, reported it, and was told to take it to the 
new Herkimer stables. 

And Max ? 

And Bertha ? 

Uncle Stephen and the good frau found life in 
Sprigg Court too comfortable to want to move. Little 
Elaine was such a pet, and dear Bertha was so much 
like her mother ! 

It ended when they took the rest of the house up- 
stairs, and Uncle Stephen made Max his man of 
business in that curious commerce of his with Natal 
and the Mozambique Channel. 

Still Max’s conscience sometimes disturbs him. 
In one of such moods he comes to me to confess and 
receive counsel. Absolution I do not give. 

And it is thus, gentle reader, that it happens that 
1 tell his story to you. 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 1 


CHAPTER I. 


0, I do not know by what accident it was that 



^ Edward Ross came to spend a week in August 
at the Columbia Hotel, at Hermon Springs. 

No, and I do not know by what accident it was that 
all the Yerneys were there. The home of the Verneys 
is at Painted Post, as I suppose you know. But this 
year the Yerneys took a holiday for a month at the 
Columbia Hotel, and while they were away from home 
the ceilings were whitened, the house was painted 

1 Readers not quite at home in Mrs. Tighe or Apuleius may be 
glad to revive their memories of the ancient Psyche by this note 
from the Cyclopedia. The prettiest rendering of that story is in 
William Morris’s “ Earthly Paradise ” ; but the reader will ask 
himself seriously whether it be anything but an allegory to cover 
the moral in the matter-of-fact tale before him. 

Psyche, whose two elder sisters were of moderate beauty, was so 
lovely that she was taken for Yenus herself, and men dared only to 
adore her as a goddess, not to love her. This excited the jealousy 
of Venus, who, to revenge herself, ordered Cupid to inspire her with 
love for some contemptible wretch. But Cupid fell in love with her 
himself. Meanwhile her father, desiring to see his daughter married, 
consulted the oracle of Apollo, which commanded that Psyche should 
be conveyed, with funeral rites, to the summit of a mountain, and 
there left, for she was destined to be the bride of a destructive mon- 
ster, in the form of a dragon, feared by gods and men. With sorrow 
was the oracle obeyed, and Psyche was left alone on the desert rock, 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


225 


inside and out, and new railings were added to the 
outside steps at the side door. 

What I do know is that it was at the Columbia 
Hotel that Edward Eoss first saw Psyche, who was the 
youngest daughter of the Yerney household. All the 
■world of the Columbia Hotel had gone across to 
the Solferino House, which was the other side of the 
way. There was a hop at the Solferino House, and 
the general public had gone to the hop. Eoss had ar- 
rived late, the only passenger by that little one-horse 
railway from Hudson. He came into the great draw- 
ing-room, and thought he was alone. But he was not 
alone. Psyche, youngest of the Yerney girls, was at 
the piano, not playing, but looking over some music 
which the Jeffrey girls had left there. 

when suddenly Zephyr hovers around her, gently raises and transports 
her to a beautiful palace of the God of Love, who visits her every 
night, unseen and unknown, leaving her at the approach of day. 
Perfect happiness would have been the lot of Psyche, if, obedient 
to the warning of her lover, she had never been curious to know 
him better. But by the artifices of her jealous sisters, whom she 
had admitted to visit her, contrary to the commands of Cupid, she 
was persuaded that she held a monster in her arms, and curiosity 
triumphed. As he slept, she entered with a lamp to examine him, 
aud discovered the most beautiful of the gods. In her joy and 
astonishment she let a drop of the heated oil fall upon his shoulders. 
Cupid awoke, and, having reproached the astonished Psyche for her 
suspicions, fled. She wandered everywhere in search of her beloved, 
but she had lost him. Venus kept her near her person, treated her 
as a slave,, and imposed on her the severest and most trying tasks. 
Psyche would have sunk under the burdens had not Cupid, who still 
tenderly loved her, secret! v assisted her in her labors. 

When Psyche was finally reunited to Cupid in Olympus, her 
envious sisters threw themselves from a precipice. 

15 


226 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


If you had asked the gossips of the hotel why 
Psyche did not go to the hop where all her older 
sisters had gone, you would have been told that she 
was but the half-sister of the other Yerneys; that 
since her mother died, these three older sisters had held 
a hard rein on poor Psyche ; that some one of them 
had laid down the law that there were so many of 
them they must not all go together to any frolic. In 
the interpretation of this law, Psyche always stayed at 
home if the party were pleasant, and one or two of 
the older sisters stayed if it were likely to be stupid. 
This is what the gossips of the hotel would have said, 
and this is what I believe. 

Anyway, it happened that on this particular evening 
Edward Ross threw himself at length on a long sofa 
in the drawing-room, not knowing that any one was 
there; and little Psyche, not knowing that he had 
come in, crooned over the Jeffreys’ music, and at last 
picked out something from Mercadante which she had 
never seen before, and which did not seem to her very 
difficult, and, after she had read the whole page down, 
tried it, and tried it again, in her resolute, wide-awake, 
very satisfactory way. 

The third time she tried she was quite well pleased 
with her own success, and this time, as she came 
down to the last staff, upon that first page, Edward 
Ross’s hand appeared on the top of the page, ready to 
turn it over. Psyche neither screamed nor flinched. 
She nodded simply : she was under the inspiration of 
the music now, and she played well. She played the 
whole piece through. Then he thanked her, and she 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


227 


thanked him. She played a good deal for him that 
evening. He brought down his William Morris and 
showed it to her, and read to her some of the best 
things in it. And so they spent two hours together 
very nicely, and by the time the madding crowd 
came back from the Solferino House, Psyche was 
not in the least sorry that she had not gone to the 
hop, and Edward Ross was very glad she had not 
gone. 

There is a lovely little burn or brook which runs 
through a shady ravine behind the Columbia House, 
I forget what they call it. It might be called the 
Lovers’ Brook or the Maiden’s Home or the Fairy’s 
Bath, or anything that verdant seventeen thought 
sweet enough. Age cannot wither nor custom stale 
its infinite variety. Edward Ross found no difficulty 
in making up a party of the young people at the 
hotel to go on a picnic up this brook the next day. 
By some device he made Agnes Yerney think she 
would stay at home to flirt with an old West Indian, 
who was far too gouty to go even to the first fall. 
This left the pretty Psyche free to go. And she went, 
in the charming adornment of the unadorned sim- 
plicity of her pretty mountain walking-dress. And 
there were quite as many gentlemen as there were 
ladies, to help at all the hard fords and to lift them 
at all the steep climbings. So Priscilla Yerney had 
her cavalier, and Polly Yerney, whom the young men 
called “ Bloody Mary,” had her Philip, and the Garner 
girls were taken care of, and the Spragues and the 
Dunstables. For every girl, there was a young man ; 


228 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


and if at most of the separating places Edward Ross 
and my pretty Psyche were together, it was not that 
they did not their full duty by society ; for they did. 

And a very pleasant day it was. That day Jabez 
Sprague asked Ann Garner to marry him, and she 
refused him point-blank : that made it a very pleas- 
ant day to her. That day Tunstall Dunstable asked 
Martha Jeffrey to marry him, and she said she would : 
that made it a very pleasant day to her. They all 
came home at five or six in the afternoon, very bright 
and jolly most of them, and those who were not 
bright and jolly pretended they were. Edward Ross 
had not asked Psyche to marry him, but I believe 
they had enjoyed the day as much as any one. 

He had found out that this simple, shy, pretty little 
thing, who was snubbed in the household, who was 
left in the cold in their arrangements, and seemed to 
have no friends, had, all the same, a sweet, happy, 
contented temper ; that she had her own notions and 
enthusiasms about books and men and duties; that 
she could not be made to say that yellow was white, 
or even that crimson was scarlet ; that she never said 
she understood a thing but could not express herself, 
or that she knew a thing unless she did know it. 
He found a woman of principle under the form and 
method and semblance of a child. 

And she had found out a man as fond of ferns as she 
was, who knew every fern in this glen, and every fern 
like it in the Himalayas ; a man as fond of music as 
she was, who could not play as well as she could, 
and yet he had heard Chopin play, had seen “The 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


229 


Huguenots ” in Paris, and had dined with Lang and 
Bennett and the Abbe Liszt himself. This man loved 
her heroes, though he had travelled in a stage-coach 
with Wendell Phillips, and had helped Mr. Sumner 
look up the authorities for one of his speeches. This 
man could quote twenty lines of Tennyson to her one, 
he had met Christina Bossetti at a party ; and yet 
he really deferred to Psyche’s own recollection of a 
stanza of Mrs. Browning’s which he had quoted wrong. 
Psyche was not used to men who dared show their 
enthusiasm, who dared confess their ignorance, who 
dared speak as if it were a matter of course to trust 
God’s love, and who owned they had other objects in 
life than making money. Psyche and Edward Boss 
returned to the hotel after a very happy day. 

The next day Edward Boss brought out the largest 
and best apparatus for water-color work that Psyche 
or any of the girls had ever seen. And before long it 
proved that, though one “ had no talent for drawing,” 
and another “ could not sketch from nature,” and an- 
other “ could not do landscape,” and another “ hated 
trees,” that on the broad piazza of the Columbia 
House five or six of them, Psyche included, could 
spend a very pleasant morning, under his directions, 
reproducing, after a fashion, on various blocks and in 
various books, the outlines of the blue Hoosac Moun- 
tains and of the valleys between. And my pretty 
Psyche went far beyond any of the rest, because she 
did as she was bid ; she had no conceit about her own 
ways ; she waited till her teacher could attend to her ; 
she did not want to attract the attention of all the 


230 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


gentlemen on the piazza ; and she was not gabbling 
all the time she was working. So that day they had 
a very happy day. 

It is not within the space assigned to this story to 
tell how pleasantly the rainy morning passed when 
Edward Boss read the “ Earthly Paradise ” aloud to 
them, nor to describe the excursion which he organ- 
ized to Williams College Commencement, nor the 
party which he made to see the Shakers, nor the even- 
ing concert of vocal and instrumental music which 
he arranged, and for which he had such funny bills 
printed at Pittsfield. No; these and the other tri- 
umphs of that week, long remembered, shall be un- 
recorded. 

Of its history, this is all that shall be told : that on 
Saturday Edward Ross told Psyche that he loved her 
more than he loved his own life. She told him that 
she loved him more than she loved hers. And so it 
was that, in the exquisite joy of the new discovery of 
what life is and what it is for, Edward Ross accom- 
panied the Yerneys on their way home to Painted Post 
on Monday. There he asked for and there he gained the 
consent of Psyche’s father for their speedy marriage. 

On Tuesday he had to go home to Boston, for his 
holiday was over. It was a bitter parting, as you may 
imagine, between him and his Psyche, who had never 
been separated for more than ten hours at a time till 
now. For the last farewell Psyche took him on her 
favorite walk at Painted Post. It is only less beauti- 
ful than the “Vestal’s Glade,” or whatever we deter- 
mined to call that burnie at Hermon. 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


231 


“ Dear Psyche,” said he to her, “ your life is mine 
henceforth, and mine is yours. God knows I have 
but one wish and one prayer henceforth, and those 
are to make you happy. It is because I wish that you 
may be happy that I ask one thing now. Do you 
think you can grant it ? It is a very great thing to 
ask.” 

“ Can I ? ” said the proud girl. “ Why, darling, you 
do not know me yet.” She had never called him 
“ darling ” till an hour before. 

“You must not promise till you know,” said Ed- 
ward Boss. 

“ I can promise and I will promise now. There is 
nothing you think right to ask which I shall not 
think it right to do.” 

“ Dearest, I do think this is right ; I know it is 
right. It is because I know it, because we shall be ten 
thousand times happier, and because I shall be ten 
thousand times better for it, that I ask it. I would not 
dream of it but for your sake — ” And he paused. 

“ Why do you stop, my dear Edward ? I have 
promised. What shall I do ? ” 

“ Dearest, you are to do nothing. Simply, you are 
not to ask what my daily duty is, and you are not to 
ask me to introduce you to my friends. It separates 
me less from my sunbeam than most men’s cares. 
Without knowing it, you can help me in a thousand 
ways in it. But to know what it is will only bring 
care on you and grief on me. Can we not live, as 
you trust me and as I love you, without my worrying 
you with these petty cares ? ” 


232 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


“ Is that all ? ” said Psyche, with her pretty laugh. 
“ Why, darling, if it were to sweep the street-crossing, 
— as in that funny story you told us, — I would 
sweep too. If it were to keep a gambling-table, you 
would not have asked me to marry you. It is some- 
thing honorable, that I know, because you are my 
own Edward. Why need I know anything more ? ” 
And he kissed her, and she kissed him ; and they 
went home to his little lunch ; and then the express 
swept by, with Jim Fisk in uniform, as it happened, 
in a palace-car. And so Edward Boss went to Bos- 
ton and made ready for his wedding. 


CHAPTEE II. 

And a perfect wedding it was. I doubt if Painted 
Post remembers a prettier wedding or a prettier 
bride. And in that same express train Mr. E. Eoss 
and his pretty bride swept off to New York, and so 
to Boston ; and there he took her to the first sight of 
her pretty home. 

How pretty it was ! It was in Eoxbury, so it 
was half country; and there was a pretty garden, 
with a little greenhouse such as Psyche had always 
longed for. Nay, there was even a fern-house, with 
just the ferns she loved, and with those other Hima- 
laya ferns which he had talked of on that lovely first 
day of all. And there was a perfect grand piano, of 
a tone so sweet, and only one piece of music on the 
open rack, and that was the Mercadante of the first 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


233 


evening. And when they went upstairs, Psyche’s 
own dressing-room was papered with the same paper 
w T hich her pretty room had at her old home, and the 
carpet on the floor was the same, and every dear pic- 
ture of her girlhood’s collections was duplicated ; and 
just where the cage of her pretty bullfinch, Tom, had 
hung, there hung just such a cage. Why, it was her 
cage, and her Tom was in it ! 

For Psyche and Edward had spent a night and a 
day in New York, that she might see Mr. Stewart’s 
pictures and Mr. Johnson’s; but Edward’s office-boy, 
who had been left at Painted Post especially that he 
might bring the bullfinch, had taken a later train, 
indeed, but had come through without stopping. 

And when they went into Edward’s little den, it 
had but two pictures : one was Psyche’s portrait, and 
the other was that miserable little first picture of the 
Hoosac Hills. 

And then such a happy life began for these young 
people ! No, Psyche did not find housekeeping hard. 
She had been the Cinderella at Mr. Yerney’s house 
too long for that. Now that she was the mistress of 
servants, she knew how to be kind to them and to 
enter into their lives. As Mrs. Wells says, “she 
tried the Golden Rule ” with them. She loved them, 
and they loved her. And Edward was always devis- 
ing ways to systematize the housekeeping and make it 
easier. Every morning he worked in his study for 
two hours, and she “ stepped round ” for an hour, and 
then lay on the lounge for an hour, reading by her- 
self. Then he and she had two golden hours together. 


234 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


They made themselves boy and girl again. Two days 
in the week they painted with the water-colors ; and 
Psyche really passed her master, for her eye for color 
was, oh! much better than his. Two days they 
worked at their music together — worked, not played. 
Two days they read together, he to her or she to him. 
And after lunch he always took his nap ; and then, if 
it were cool enough, the horses came round, and he 
took Psyche off on one of the beautiful drives of 
Brookline or Milton or Newton or distant Needham; 
and she learned the road so well and learned to drive 
so well that she would take him as often as he took 
her. And at five they were at home, and at six 
Psyche’s charming little dinner was served, always so 
perfectly ; and then at eight o’clock he always kissed 
her, and said, “ Good-by, sweet ; now I must go out a 
little while. Do not think of sitting up for me.” 
And then Psyche wrote her letters home or read a 
while ; and at ten she went to bed, and fell asleep, 
wondering how she could have lived before she was 
so happy. 

And in the morning her husband was always 
asleep at her side. He slept so heavily that she 
would try to get up and dress without his knowing 
it. But he always did know. And because he could 
dress quicker than she, he would put on his heavy 
Persian dressing-robe, after he had plunged his 
head into cold water, and while she “ did her hair ” 
he would read her “ Amadis of Gaul,” or the “ Arabian 
Nights,” or “ Ogier the Dane,” or the “ Tales of the 
Bound Table,” till he saw she was within five minutes 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


235 


of being done. Then he would put down the book — • 
yes, though Oriana were screaming in the arms of a 
giant — and he would run and dress himself, and 
they would run a race to see which should first reach 
the piazza and give to the other the first morning- 
glory. 

And then would come another happy day, like and 
yet unlike to yesterday. 

No one called, you see. But I do not think Psyche 
cared for that. She always hated to make calls, nor 
did she want much to receive them. Both she and 
Edward were alone fully half their lives, though some- 
times he would call her into the study to work with 
him, and often he would come to her to work with 
her. He would ask her if she was lonely, and he 
planned visits from his sisters, who were very nice girls, 
and his mother, who was perfectly lovely, and after 
a while, from some of the Western girls whom Psyche 
had known at the Ingham University. But never, 
by any accident, did any visitor come who made any 
allusion to his daily business. He never spoke of it 
to Psyche, and she, dear child, thought of it much 
less than you would think. She had promised not to 
ask, and she had sense to learn that the best way not 
to ask was not to care. Yes, Versatilla, dear, — and a 
girl of principle who determines not to care will not 
care. She knows how to will and to do. 

I do not know whether Psyche the more enjoyed the 
opera or the pictures which she and Edward saw to- 
gether. There seemed to her to be no nice private house 
in Boston where dear Edward did not seem welcome 


236 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


when he sent in his card, and asked if he and Mrs. 
Boss might see the pictures. Psyche often said that 
she owned more Corots and Calames, more Daubignys 
and Merles and Millets and Bonnats than any lady in 
the land, and that she kept them in more galleries. 
At the opera they often found pleasant people whom 
Edward knew sitting next to them, and they always 
chided him that he was such a stranger; and he 
always introduced Psyche to them as his wife as 
proudly as a king ; and with many of these people 
she talked pleasantly, and some of them she met and 
bowed to at church or as they were driving. But 
none of them ever called upon her, nor did she call 
upon them. One day she said to Edward that she 
believed he knew more people than anybody else in 
the world. And he said, with a sad sigh, “I am 
afraid I do ” ; and she saw that it w r orried him, and 
so the dear child said no more. 

In all this happy time Psyche had had no visit 
from her own sisters. Perhaps that was one reason why 
it was so happy. But it happened, after a happy 
life of a year and more, that a darling baby boy came 
to Psyche to make her wonder how she could have 
thought her life before was life at all. And the birth 
of the boy and his wonderful gifts were duly reported 
in the letters to Painted Post, and then there came 
quite a hard letter from Priscilla, putting in form the 
complaint that neither of the sisters had ever been 
asked to make Psyche a visit since they were married. 

Psyche showed the letter to Edward on the mo- 
ment, and he laughed. 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


237 


“ I have only wondered it did not come before.” 

Psyche tried to laugh too, but she came very near 
crying. “ I have not wanted them to come before, and 
I don’t want them to come now.” 

“ Then they shall not come,” said Edward, laughing 
again, and taking her on his knee. 

“ But I do want them to come, partly. I wish 
they had come and had gone, and that it was all over. 
It does not seem quite nice that my own sisters 
should not visit me.” 

“Well, my darling, as to that, they are not your 
own sisters ; and even if Mrs. Grundy does not think 
it is quite nice, I do not know why you and I should 
care. Still, if you want to have them and have it 
over, let them come. ‘ Olim meminisse juvabit.' That 
means, * You will be glad to remember it.’ ” 

Psyche said she knew that; and she pulled his 
whiskers. for him because he pretended to think she 
did not ; and he kissed her, and she kissed him. And 
so the next day, after Psyche had written ten differ- 
ent letters and had torn them up, she concocted the 
following, which, as it met Edward’s approval, was 
despatched to Painted Post by the mail of the same 
evening : — 

“ Roxbury, May 10, 18-p. 

“My dear Priscilla, — Indeed you must not think that 
Edward has prevented me from asking you to make a visit here. 
If it gives you any pleasure to come and see me and my housekeep- 
ing, you know very well how much pleasure it will give to me. 
You know we live very quietly, and are not in the least gay; so I 
think you must all come together and entertain each other. But 
little Geoffrey will entertain you, and you will think he is the dear, 
est little fellow that ever lived. 


238 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


Come as soon as you can, for we are all going to the sea-shore 
on the 25 th, and if you do not come soon it will he a very short 
visit.” 

And then the letter went on about Ann Garner’s 
engagement, and the new styles for prints, and so on. 

So the invitation was well over. 


CHAPTEB III. 

If Edward Eoss, or Psyche his wife, or Bim, the 
nurse of Geoffrey his son, had any hope that Agnes 
Verney and Priscilla Yerney, and Bloody Mary, their 
sister, would decline the invitation, or that any one of 
them would decline it, they were very much mistaken. 
Allowing a day and a half for the letter to go to 
Painted Post, and a day for the three ladies to pack 
their trunks, and a day and a half for them to come 
to Boston, you have four days, which is precisely the 
interval which passed between the mailing of the letter 
and the arrival, late at night, of a carriage at Edward 
Boss’s door with the three ladies, and of an express - 
wagon with the six trunks with which they had pre- 
pared for the ten days’ visit. This, was the night of the 
14th, and, as they had been kindly informed by Psyche, 
their visit must end on the 24th. 

And such a visit as it was ! Not one day was un- 
provided for by Edward’s forethought, and one amuse- 
ment after another crowded upon the time, so that, if 
it were possible, the three ladies might not have a 
moment’s time either for caballing against each other, or 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


239 


for lecturing poor Psyche. It was a little funny to see 
how, as a matter of course, they all taught her how 
to carry on her household. They would tell her, to 
Edward’s great amusement and to her well-concealed 
rage, how to cheapen her mutton, how to keep her 
butter, how to save eggs in her sponge-cake, and even 
how to arrange the dishes on the table. Everything 
was elegant and tasteful in Psyche’s house, wholly 
beyond any standard which they had ever seen at 
home ; but all the same, they would make this sugges- 
tion and give that direction, as if, she said to her 
husband, crying, one morning — “ as if this were poor 
papa’s house, and I were Cinderella again.” 

And Edward only laughed and kissed her, and said, 
“ 0 my sunbeam, keep a bright eye for them ! There 
are now only six days more, and then Mrs. Grundy 
will be satisfied. ‘ Olim meminisse juvabit.’ ” And 
then he pinched her ear, and she pulled his whiskers, 
and she laughed through her tears. 

The first day was a day fresh from heaven; the 
apple-blossoms were in their prime, the air was 
sweetness itself ; and after a late breakfast two pretty 
carriages came to the door. And Psyche took Agnes, 
Who was the least hateful of the three, in her little 
pony-carriage, and herself drove Puss and Doll, her 
pretty ponies, after she had given to each an Albert 
biscuit from her own hand. And Edward took Pris- 
cilla and Bloody Mary with him, and as he passed 
the Norfolk House, he stopped and picked up Jerry 
Eordyce, who was stout and handsome and jolly, and 
Jerry took the back seat with Bloody Mary, and 


240 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


flirted desperately with her all that day, while Pris- 
cilla sat with Edward, and for miles on miles drove 
his beautiful bays. And they took a drive more lovely 
than any of these girls had ever seen. They. came 
out upon the sea-shore — I will not tell you where. 
They ate such a dinner as neither Bloody Mary nor 
Agnes nor Priscilla had ever dreamed of. They came 
home by five in the afternoon, and Edward made all 
the women lie down and sleep. And when they had 
waked, he made them all dress again, and there were 
two carriages at the door, which took them to see 
Warren at the Museum. And they laughed till they 
almost died. And then they had a charming little 
supper in a private room at Copeland’s ; and after 
midnight they all came home. And this was what 
Psyche meant when she said she lived very quietly, 
and was not at all gay ! 

Bloody Mary was literary, and she had said at 
breakfast, the first day, that she hoped they should 
see some of the Boston literati ; that she should be 
ashamed to go home to Painted Post unless she had 
seen Mr. Fields and Mr. Lowell and Mr. Longfellow 
and Dr. Holmes. And the second day, Edward said, 
should be Polly’s day, and they should see the book- 
shops and the libraries. So this day he did not order 
the ponies, but two open barouches came up, and they 
drove first to the dear old corner of Hamilton Place, 
and went up to the pretty “authors’ parlor” of Fields 
& Osgood. And Mr. Fields came in and told them 
some very pretty stories, and gave Bloody Mary an 
autograph of Tennyson; and Mr. Osgood and Mr. 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


241 


Clark came in and showed them the English advance- 
sheets of the new Trollope, and some copy of the 
new Dickens in manuscript. And the gentlemen 
begged all the ladies to come up whenever they 
passed in shopping. Then Edward took them to the 
Historical Rooms, and they saw Prescott’s sword and 
Linzee’s. Mr. Winthrop happened to come in, and 
they saw him ; and Dr. Holmes was there, looking at 
some old MSS., and he was very courteous to the 
ladies, and showed Miss Polly the picture of Sebastian 
Cabot. Then they drove out to the College Library, 
and while they were looking at the old missals and 
evangelistaries, it happened that Mr. Longfellow crossed 
the hall and spoke to Edward ; and Edward actually 
asked Agnes and Polly if he might present Mr. Long- 
fellow to them ; and then found Priscilla, and pre- 
sented him to her and to Psyche. And when Mr. 
Longfellow found they were strangers, he told them just 
what they should see and how they should see it. And 
Polly slipped out her album, and he wrote his name 
in it, and said he was sorry he could not stay longer • 
but he pointed out to her some of the most interesting 
autographs there. And then they started for the Mu- 
seum, and by great good luck they met Lowell in 
Professors’ Row. And Edward stopped the carriage, 
actually, and hailed him, and asked if he should be 
at home in an hour ; and when Mr. Lowell said he 
was engaged with a class, Edward arranged — so 
promptly ! — that they should all go and hear his lec- 
ture. And then they went to the Museum, and by 
the same wonderful luck Agassiz was going out as 
16 


242 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


they came in ; and he turned back, and showed the 
ladies everything. That was a day indeed ! They came 
home to the most beautiful little family dinner, and 
in the evening they all went to Selwyn’s Theatre, 
where was another charming play. 

There was quite a similar day on the strength of a 
word from Agnes. Agnes was so much awed at first 
by Edward’s hospitable condescension and by his giv- 
ing up so much of his time to them that she did not 
dare to be cross for the first four days. But she did 
say to him that Polly’s pretence of letters was all non- 
sense, and, that for her part, she was interested in 
politics and social reform; that at an era like that, 
when etc., etc., etc., every true woman ought etc., 
etc., etc., for the benefit of etc., etc., etc. So the very 
next day he showed them all a note from Mr. Sumner, 
saying that if the ladies would excuse the formality of 
a call, he should be happy to show them his prints and 
some other things which would please them at noon, 
and enclosing tickets for reserved seats to an address 
he was to deliver in the evening. That day was wholly 
given to politics and politicians. They went to the 
State-House, and sat in a sort of private gallery, when 
the young Duke of Gerolstein, who was on his travels, 
was received on the floor ; and several very handsome 
and very nice young senators and representatives 
came up and were presented to the ladies. And when 
it came time for lunch, Edward invited three of the 
very nicest to go down to Parker’s to a little dinner 
he had ordered there, and they had a very jolly time, 
in which Agnes studied social reform with a very 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


243 


merry senator from Essex County, quite to her heart’s 
content. 

As for Priscilla, she spoke hut coldly of literature 
and politics, though she did not object to the dinner 
at Parker’s or to flirting with senators. But she said 
to Edward that her heart was with the poor and 
sinful; that she would gladly do something in this 
complex civilization of ours to save those that were 
lost. How happy could she be if she were only eat- 
ing locusts and wild honey on the brink of Jordan ! 
But that seemed impossible, and she sighed. So a 
day was arranged for charity and its ministers — fail- 
ing locusts. Fortunately the Diocesan Convention 
was in ’session, and among the presbyters and dele- 
gates Edward seemed as much at home and at ease as 
among the literati and the politicians. He presented 
Dr. Temple and Dr. South and Mr. Teinagle to the girls, 
and these gentlemen explained to them all the pro- 
ceedings. At the little lunch for delegates and their 
wives, the bishop spoke courteously to all of them, 
and Edward brought to them the very famous Bishop 
of Parabata, who was on his travels to a Pan-Anglican 
Council. After the lunch they heard Mr. Tillotson 
preach, and then they were whisked down to the 
North End Mission, where there was that day an en- 
tertainment for destitute shop-girls. And here Mrs. 
Oberlin, a very famous philanthropist, enlisted them 
all to help her in her table at the great Pair in the 
Music Hall for the benefit of the mission ; and then 
the next day all the girls spent a very charitable and 
very successful afternoon. 


244 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


But I did not describe that week at Hermon. Why 
should I describe these ten days at Boston ? A day 
at ISfahan t, ctl fresco , with two perfect black waiters, 
who arranged the lunch on the grass, because no one 
had moved down to Hahant so early; a visit to 
Plymouth and the Forefathers’ Bock; a visit to the 
Antiquarian Hall at Worcester, and one to the witches’ 
home at Salem, — these occupied so many days. Then 
there was the famous ball given by the City of Boston 
to the Duke of Gerolstein in the Boston Theatre, 
when all Colonnade Row was taken for supper-tables. 

The old rules of the Yerney family were wholly 
violated : all four of the girls went ; and they danced 
with elegant young men till they almost died. And 
at last not only the ball was over, but everything else 
was over; and on the 24th of May the girls went 
home, after such a visit as even they were staggered 
to look back upon. 

Edward and Psyche took them to the train, and, 
when it had fairly rolled out of the station, she took 
both his hands, and they looked each other in the 
face and laughed till the tears ran out of all four eyes. 
And, as they mounted the carriage, Psyche said, 
“ How we will live like civilized beings again ! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Dear Psyche, could you not cast the future better ? 

That day, as they had arranged, she packed her 
things and Geoffrey’s for the country, and the next 
day they went, bag and baggage, to a beautiful place 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


245 


Mr. Boss had hired, at the corner of Hale Street and 
Beach Street, for a sea-shore home in Beverly, so that 
dear Geoffrey might have the south wind off the sea, 
the purest of air, and the freshest of salt-water 
brought up for his daily bath. 

The only grief was that Edward had to take the 
evening train for Boston five nights in the week. 
But he always appeared fresh and bright at breakfast ; 
and in the bath at noon, in the daily walk, or in the 
evening ride to the station, life seemed all the happier 
because the three hags of Painted Post had returned 
to their lair. 

But this paradise lasted only a fortnight, when the 
tempter came. This letter arrived from Priscilla : — 

“ Very Private. 

“ Painted Post, June 5. 

“My dearest Psyche, — Your sisters and I have had a very- 
serious conversation about you and the life you are leading. You 
seem to he very happy ; but have you thought , my dear Psyche, that 
you are dancing on the edge of a volcano ? Have you asked no ques- 
tion as to the future ? Are you so blinded as to forget that the wages 
of sin is death, and that the joys of this moment are as nothing com- 
pared with the terrors of eternity ? 

“ Your sisters and I have spoken to dear papa about the life you 
lead. He has hidden me write to you just what I think, and your 
sisters also say it is my duty to do so. I write you, therefore — how 
sadly you know — to say that, as a Christian woman, you ought not 
to continue in this life. You should rise above it, and assert the 
freedom of a child of God. What is a dinner at Parker’s if eaten 
with a guilty conscience ? Better is a dinner of herbs where love is. 

“/ am sorry to write you a letter which seems severe. But you 
know , my dear child, that I am as a mother to you. And surely 
the counsels of a mother will be sweeter to you than the flatteries of 
any not so near as she. 

“ Always your loving sister, 

“Priscilla.* 


246 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


“ Counsels of a fiddlestick!” said Psyche; and 
she wrote this answer : — 

“What in the world is the matter ? I saw no dislike of Parker’s 
dinners when you were here. I believe you are crazy. 

“ Always yours, 

“Psyche.” 

And she threw Priscilla’s letter into the kitchen- 
fire. This was her mistake. She would have been 
wiser had she shown it to Edward, as she did the 
other. But she was ashamed to. 

Another week brought her another letter. 

“ Private and Particular. 

“Painted Post, June 13. 

“ My dear Child, — lam shocked with the levity of your note, 
without date , which lies before me. 

“ Dear Psyche, fools make a mock of sin. How can you exult in 
your own shame ? How can you live as the wife of a man of whom 
you know nothing, whose whole life is suspicious and a scandal, who 
is himself so ashamed of it that he does not admit his own wife to a 
knowledge of its secret ways ? I cannot see how a child of Christian 
parents should be so blinded and misled. 

“ Rouse yourself in your strength, dear child. Ask your hus- 
band honestly and bravely what it is that he does in his nightly 
orgies. Do not think that we observed nothing in our visit. Do 
not think that we were lulled or put to sleep in our watch over our 
sister. Never, dear Psyche. We love you as much as ever. And 
we are determined to tear every shred of mystery from your life, 
once so artless and pure. 

“ Truly, your sister-mother, 

“ Priscilla.” 

“ Sister-mother indeed!” said Psyche; and she 
wrote this letter : — 

“ Dear Pris, — If you will mind your business, I will mind 
mine. P.” 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


247 


And she threw Priscilla’s letter into the sea at 
high tide, torn into little bits. This was her second 
mistake. 

This time this answer came : — 


“Painted Post, June 21. 

“ My dear lost Lamb, — I have spent the night in prayer for 
you. This morning Agnes and Polly and I showed your profligate 
letter to our dear father. He has charged me to write what I think 
best to you. 

“Is it not my business to care for the life and soul of a dear sis- 
ter who has no mother's love ? Am I not right when I fall on my 
knees to pray for her welfare ? How could I enjoy the good of this 
life or the hopes of another, knowing that my sister is eating the 
bread of wickedness and drinking from the cup of sin ? Shall the 
watchman desert his post because the soldier sleeps ? 

“ Ask yourself why no person except the hireling tradesman ever 
visits at this house of luxury and extravagance , which your husband 
makes the prison-house of your soul. 

“ Ask yourself what is the fountain of this gold which he spends 
so shamelessly. 

“ Ask yourself, dear Psyche, what you would have said two years 
ago had any one told you that you should become the wife of a coun- 
terfeiter or a forger or a gambler or a keeper of a dance-house or a 
detective , or any other of those horrid things which are done in 
secret. If any one had said to you that you should have pleasure in 
those that do them, what would you have said ? 0 my dear lost 
lamb, how often has that sweet text (see Romans i. 32) come back 
to me since I came to see you, in the faint hope that I might rescue 
my lamb even as a brand from the burning ! My dear Psyche, will 
you not turn before it is too late ? Why will you die ? 

“ Thus asks and prays your own 

“Priscilla.” 

“ My own cat and dog ! ” said little Psyche scorn- 
fully. But she did not put the letter into the fire, 
nor did she tear it to shreds to throw them into the 
sea. I am very sorry ; but, even in her wonder, she 
kept the letter hid away. 


248 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


“ What in the world did they find out about Ed- 
ward that I do not know ? ” This was the first fatal 
question which Psyche asked herself. 

“Forger, counterfeiter, detective, gambler — what 
do the vile creatures mean ? They shall not say such 
horrid things about the best of men ! ” 

“ Ask yourself what is the fountain of this gold.” 
Psyche had asked herself very often, and she did not 
know, and she knew she did not know. Edward was 
not lavish, and he was not parsimonious. She and 
he went over the bills together once a month, and 
when they were too large, they both took care that 
that should not happen again. And he gave her nice 
crisp bills to pay them with, and always gave her a 
separate sum for “ P,” which he said was her “ pri- 
vate, personal, or peculiar share,” which she had bet- 
ter not keep any account of. Where it all came from 
she did not know, and she knew she did not know ; 
and she had promised not to ask him. 

As for asking herself why nobody called to see her, 
she had asked that too, and she had no better answer. 
The minister did call once a year ; but they had been 
out both times, and he had left his card. The doctor 
had called before Geoffrey was born, and after ; but 
she had not asked him why nobody else called. She 
supposed it was the Boston way. Certainly she had 
called on nobody but on Mrs. Eoyall and Mrs. Flynn 
and a few more of her protegees. She was sure she 
did not want people to call on her, and she did not 
want to call on them. 

Still the iron had entered her soul. And, as Satan 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


249 


ordered, for this week of all weeks, Edward was 
called away to New York ; and although there were 
two letters a day from dear Edward, and very funny 
scraps from bills of fare and play-bills, and one or two 
new novels by post, and an Euglish edition of the 
new “ Morris,” still her “ earthly paradise ” was a 
very gloomy paradise without him. 

And every day the poor child read over Priscilla’s 
venomous letter; and at 'last she went so far that she 
determined that she would ask him why nobody ex- 
cept the minister and the doctor ever came to see her. 

Of course she did no such thing ; for Friday night 
came, and — joy of joys ! — Edward came. And Geoff 
was dragged out of his crib to see papa, and came 
down in his dear little flannel night-gown, and really 
knew papa, or was said to ; and Geoff really grabbed 
at the new coral papa had brought to him, and held 
it in his hand and swayed it to and fro wildly, as a 
man very drunk would do ; and they laughed happily 
over Geoff and put him to bed again ; and then they 
sat and talked, and talked and sat, till long after any 
bedtime Psyche had ever dreamed of ; and then they 
went to bed together, and -as Psyche undressed, Ed- 
ward read the story of the “Four Sons of Aymon” 
aloud to her. It was all as beautiful as it could be : 
and was she to bother him with talking about callers l 
Not she ! She had him till Monday night, and she 
was not going to destroy her own paradise before then. 

So there was one long, lovely Saturday, when he 
worked with her and she worked with him, and they 
went to the beach together, and went to drive to* 


250 


THE MODERN PSYCHE . 


getlier, and painted together, and in the evening they 
tried some new music that he had brought home; 
and he had a whole pile of lovely English and French 
letters which had come since he went away, and they 
had those to read together ; and there was one Ger- 
man letter from his old Heidelberg friend, Weis ted, 
and Psyche helped him puzzle out the words of the 
writing : he said she always guessed these riddles 
better than he did. And Welsted was married too, 
and he had a little girl baby, and made great fun 
about marrying her to Geoffrey. And they wrote an 
answer to Welsted, and it was midnight before they 
came round to the “Four Sons of Ayrnon” and to 
their bed. 

And Sunday was another lovely day. They drove 
to church, and the drive was charming. They drove 
to Essex Woods, and that was charming. And Ed- 
ward got out some of his old college diaries and read 
to her; and she fell to telling him about Ingham 
University. Oh dear ! I do not know what they did 
not talk about. And it was midnight before they 
went to bed again. 

Edward went right to sleep. Psyche had noticed 
that before. He would say, “ God bless us, darling ! ” 
and he would be asleep in two seconds. But Psyche 
could not sleep. She had lost all her chances to ask 
him about the calls. She could not bear to wake him 
up and ask him. Hay, had she not promised him 
that she would not ask him ? Hot this very thing, 
perhaps, but what was just the same thing. 

Why should she ask him ? Why should she not 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


251 


find out without asking him ? Priscilla seemed to 
know, hut Priscilla had never asked ' him. How did 
Priscilla know ? How did Priscilla know ? — how ? 
how ? how ? The poor child said this over to herself 
in words, — “ How ? how ? how ? ” — and she fell 
asleep. 

But she did not sleep well. All of a sudden, in a 
horrid dream, in which they were dragging Edward 
off to prison, she woke up. Oh, how glad she was to 
be awake ! What in the world were they taking him 
to prison for ? What had he done ? Priscilla knew. 
Did Priscilla know ? Why should not Psyche know ? 

Poor little Psyche ! It was very still, and Ed- 
ward was dead asleep. And one word from him 
would make her perfectly happy. And yet she did 
not dare ask him to speak that one word. 

Why should she not be perfectly happy ? Why 
should she disturb him at all ? Why should she not 
keep her promise, -and be perfectly happy too ? 

Dear little Psyche ! Poor little Psyche ! She got 
out of bed, and she stepped gently across the room to 
Edward’s dressing-room, and she pushed the door to. 
It was the first time in her life that Psyche had ever 
tried to part herself from her husband. And she 
knew it was. And a cold shudder ran through her 
as she thought of this. But she was not born to be 
frightened by cold shudders. There was too much 
Lady Macbeth in her for that. She struck a match, 
lighted a candle, and sat for a minute thinking. Then 
she bravely took her husband’s coat and drew from 
the breast-pocket that Russia leather letter-book 


252 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


which she gave him at Christmas. How little she 
thought then that she should be handling it stealthily 
at the dead of night ! 

She opened the book, which was full of letters. 
She seized the first : — 

“ Mr. Edward Ross, No. 999 State Street, Boston.” 

Then that was his office. She could drive down 
State Street some day and just look at the number. 
She set the candle on her knee to free her hand 
while she opened the letter. 

“Dear Ross, — Could you spare me Orton for half an hour? 

“E. J. F.” 

Miserable girl ! She had violated all confidence — 
to learn nothing ! 

But Lady Macbeth went on. 

“Mr. Edward Ross , 999 State Street : 

“ Dear Ross, — If you can come to club again, you will come 
to-day. Hedge reads, and Emerson and James will be there. We 
have not seen you for a year.” 

And she knew why he had not Jined at club for a 
year, why he had spent every moment that he could 
spend at home. Miserable girl ! It was for this that 
she had stolen out of bed ! 

So Lady Macbeth read No. 3. 

“ Mr. Edward Ross , 999 State Street : 

“Dear Sir, — We cannot match the turquoise here. But on 
the catalogue of Messrs. Roothan, Amsterdam, there are four such 
stones. Shall we telegraph them ? We have very little time before 
July 31.” 

July 31 was her birthday. It was for this that 
she was reading her husband’s secrets. Wretched 
Psyche ! 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


253 


Lady Macbeth went on. 

“ Private and Confidential. 

“ Edward Ross , Esq., 999 State Street 

Lady Macbeth paused, but her hand was in. 

“Dear Sir, — The committee met and read your letter with 
great care. Mr. Potter said that he had seen you on Tuesday, and 
that you expressed the same view then. I also laid before the com- 
mittee General G ’s letter to you, and the telegram you had 

received from Syracuse. If you can pursuade your friends to — ” 

Here the page ended, and Psyche had to turn 
over. As she turned, the candlestick tipped on her 
knee, fell bottom up upon the ground, and Psyche 
was in darkness. 

What a noise it made ! And what a guilty fool 
Psyche felt like ! No Lady Macbeth now ! But she 
folded the letter and put it back in the letter-case. 
She put the letter-case in the pocket, and folded the 
coat. She picked up the candle, and put it on the 
table. Then she slunk back into her bedroom. All 
this time Edward was crying out, “ Dear Psyche, are 
you ill ? What is it, dear ? ” He was out of bed, 
and was fumbling in the dark in Psyche’s dressing- 
room. But the ways of the sea-shore home were not 
familiar to him. 

When Psyche dared — that is, when she was at 
the foot of the bed — she cried out to Edward that 
nothing was wrong. She had had a bad dream, and 
was frightened, and had got up to strike a light, but 
she had not meant to call him. And he found her 
shivering on the bedside ; and he cooed to her and 


254 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


comforted her, and made her promise to call him 
another time. And Psyche had just force enough to 
say sadly, “ Call you — yes, if you are here.” And 
then he sang to her a little crooning song his mother 
sang to' him when he was a child, and poor Psyche 
cried herself to sleep. 


CHAPTER V. 

The next morning Psyche slept too heavily. She 
did not wake till Edw r ard w r as out of bed. Then she 
started like a guilty thing. But she did not dare go 
into his dressing-room. 

And he brought in the "Four Sons of Aymon,” 
and read to her. Oh, she was as long as ever she 
could be about her dressing ; hut, alas ! the breakfast- 
bell rang, and Edward ran into his room. 

One minute, — it seemed forever, — then he came 
in with his coat, and with a look which tried to be 
comical, but was, oh, so sad ! he pointed at the long 
swirl of spermaceti which ran from one end of it to 
the other. 

Then he bent over the poor crying girl and kissed 
her, and kissed her again. 

“ How can you, Edward ? I am so wicked — and 
such a fool ! ” 

“ Darling, you are not wicked at all, and it is I 
who am the fool.” 

“ Dear Edward, hear me. I was perfectly happy 
till they came — ” 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


255 


“ Sweetheart, you need not say so.” 

“ Edward, hear me ; read what they write to me. 
Bead this. Read where they say you are a forger 
and a counterfeiter, a detective and a gambler” 

“ Really,” said Edward, as he read, “ they compli- 
ment me. The New York “ Observer ” could not treat 
a man worse.” 

Psyche was amazed, and she saw that Edward was 
more amused than angry. 

“ Dear Edward, I am a fool. But I could not bear 
that Bloody Mary should know more of my own boy 
than I did.” 

“ No, my darling,” said he stoutly ; “ and there is 
no reason why you should. But hear that bell! 
Ellen is crazy that we shall come to breakfast. Finish 
your hair. I will find another, coat ; and at breakfast, 
as Miss Braddon says, I will tell you all” 

And at breakfast he told her all. It was so little 
to tell that I am ashamed to have wasted ten thou- 
sand words without relieving the reader’s anxiety. 

As soon as Ellen had attended to the table and 
left the room, Edward said, “ Dearest, all is that I am 
a greater fool than Clarence Hervey himself. I am the 
leading editor of the ‘ Daily Argus.’ That is all.” 

Psyche fairly laid down her fork. “ What a fool I 
am ! I have read things I told you myself in the 
paper, yet I never dreamed that you put them there. 
But why keep such a secret from your poor little 
butterfly ? ” 

“Why, my darling,” said he more seriously, — 


256 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


“ why, but that I wanted to have my butterfly to 
myself? You will see, dearest. God grant it may 
not be as I fear. But if — I am afraid — if one per- 
son knows where you live, he will know where I live. 
If one person knows, two will know. If two know, 
two hundred thousand will know. If they know, 
there is an end to breakfasts without door-bells, an 
end to German together, an end to water-colors and 
to music, an end to the pony- wagon and the drives. 
That was my only reason for trying to protect you from 
the necessity of keeping a secret. I thought, in that 
new part of Boston, if we called on nobody, nobody 
would call on us. So far I was not wrong. Then I 
took care at the office to have it understood that no 
messenger was to be sent to my house. I bit off old 
Folger’s head one day when he offered to send me a 
proof-sheet. Then I thought if we sent out ‘ No 
cards,’ if I could only make you happy without ‘ re- 
ceiving,’ my friends would not know where to find 
me, and so my enemies would never know, nor the 
intermediate mass who are neither friends nor ene- 
mies. A little skill in May was enough to keep my 
name out of the Directory, excepting with the office 
address. Indeed, I thought if I did my six hours’ 
work there between nine and three every night, it 
was all the world had a right to ask of me. But all 
this has made you wretched, so it has been all wrong, 
and it shall come to an end. You shall have a state 
dinner-party next Saturday.” 

Psyche cried and cried and cried, as if her heart 
would break. And Edward cried a little too. 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


257 


“Bat why not go on so now ?” said she. “I can 
keep a secret.” This she said proudly, though she 
blushed as she said it. “ Wild horses shall not draw 
it from me.” 

“ No,” said Edward sadly, “ I know wild horses will 
not drag it from my darling ; hut I know they will 
try, and I do not choose to have her torn by wild 
horses : she has suffered enough from the pulling 
and hauling of three wild asses.” 

And so it was all settled that they should begin to 
see people. All was as clear as light between them 
now, and the new dynasty began. 

And for a month or two there was no great change. 
At first it was only that Boss brought out one or two 
gentlemen with him to spend Sunday. They made 
the house very pleasant, and dear little Psyche did 
the honors beautifully. Then they whispered round 
what a charming home it was. And the Beverly 
people, some of whom are very nice persons, found 
out what a pretty neighbor they had, and that it was 
Ross of the “Argus,” and they called, and asked to tea, 
and then Psyche and Edward returned the calls, and 
asked to tea. 

It was not till they went back to Eoxbury that the 
Teal change came. Then was it that before breakfast 
the door-bell began to ring ; and women with causes, 
and men out of employment, and inventors with in- 
ventions, began to wait in the ante-room till Mr. E. 
Ross came downstairs. Then was it that he poured 
down his hasty cup of coffee, and ran to be rid of 
them. Then was it that councilmen came out as 
17 


258 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


soon as breakfast was over to arrange private schemes 
for thwarting the aldermen ; and that while the coun- 
cilmen arranged, aldermen called and waited for Mr. 

E. Eoss to be at leisure, because they wanted to 
make plans for thwarting the council. Then was it 
that, from morning to night, candidates for the House 
and candidates for the Senate came for private con- 
ferences, and had to be let out from different doors 
lest they should meet each other. Then was it that 
men who had letters of introduction from Japan and 
Formosa and Siberia and Aboukuta sat in Psyche’s 
parlor six or seven hours at a time, illustrating the 
customs of those countries, and what Mr. Lowell calls 
“ a certain air of condescension observable in for- 
eigners.” Then was it that Psyche received calls 
from wives of senators and daughters of congress- 
men, to say in asides to her that if Mr. E. Eoss could 
find it in his way to say this, he would so much 
oblige thus and so. Then was it that, trying to 
screen him from bores, she received all the women 
who sold Lives of Christ, and all the agents who ex- 
hibited copies of maps or heliotypes. Then . was it 
that, when the ponies came to the door, railroad 
presidents drew up, who just wanted a minute to 
talk about their new bonds. Then was it that, after 
the ponies had been sent back to the stable, grand 
ladies drew up to send in cards to Psyche, and to 
persuade her to take tables at fairs and to be vice- _ 
president of almshouses. Then was it that every 
Saturday Psyche gave a charming literary dinner, not 
bad in its way ; and the counterpart of this was that 


THE MODERN PSYCHE. 


259 


Psyche and Edward dined at other people’s houses 
four days out of the remaining six. The sixth day 
Edward was kept down town for some of the engage- 
ments these wretches had forced him into. Thus was 
it in the end that moths ate up the camel’s-hair pen- 
cils, and no one ever found it out ; that the upper G 
string in the piano rusted off, and no one discovered 
it; that Bridget Flynn put ten volumes of Grill- 
parzer into the furnace-fire, and nobody missed them ; 
and that all the ferns in the fern-house died, and no- 
body wept for them. 

From early morning round to early morning Psyche 
never saw her lover-husband, except as he and she 
gorged a hurried and broken breakfast, or as he took 
in to dinner some lady he did not care for, and as she, 
at her end of the table, talked French or Cochin 
Chinese to some man who had brought letters of in- 
troduction. 

She knew what her husband’s business was and 
who his friends were. But, for all intents and pur- 
poses, she had lost him forever. 

As for the three step-sisters at Painted Post, they 
went to a Sunday-School picnic one day, and fell off 
a precipice and were killed. 


University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 











































































































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